


Ubi Sunt

by lymricks



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern AU, sports AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymricks/pseuds/lymricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could only be described as a freak accident: career ending and without cause. For months after Merlin Emrys and his horse, The Fisher King, hit the ground, analysts and the press would all ask the same question—what went wrong? One moment, Merlin and the Fisher King were proving themselves to be every inch the rumored champions they were, and the next, they were on the ground. The Fisher King got up, but Merlin stayed down. Two years after the accident, and twenty months since the equestrian world has so much as seen Merlin’s face, Merlin meets Arthur Pendragon, another champion recovering from a career crippling (but not ending) accident eerily similar to Merlin’s own. And much to Merlin’s chagrin, an old lesson horse—who Merlin’s students call The Great Dragon—has just started talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ubi Sunt

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please also head over and check out the UNBELIEVABLE ART that viennajones did for this story. It's right [here](http://pastelwoods.livejournal.com/1952.html#cutid1) and it's fantastic.

__

“Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the revels in the hall? Alas for the bright cup! Alas for the mailed warrior! Alas for the splendour of the prince! How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been!”

When Merlin had been a little boy, he’d wanted to ride horses. It hadn’t ended well for him.

If there was a story to be told, and Merlin wasn’t quite convinced there was one, then that would be the story. He’d wanted something, and he hadn’t gotten it, and in the vein of all great epics he would have to find a blind bard to tell it. He would probably have to die to make the ending more interesting. Crippled didn’t have the same ring to it as corpse.

Merlin turned his eyes around the venue, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the convention. That’s where Gaius had sent him to, kicking and screaming and a little frightened: a horse convention. Merlin had spent the first day of the weekend in relative anonymity, which had been a relief. But paranoid, that was a good word to describe him, _paranoid_ that someone would figure him out. Will and Gwen said it had something to do with an inflated ego, which was their nice way of reminding him that the world didn’t revolve around his accident. All the same, freak accidents and skyrocketing careers made for an interesting type of infamy. Merlin felt like a cliche, but really, he just wanted to be left alone.

He shook it off, because he wasn’t here to be maudlin. He was here to do his job—or that’s what Gaius had said, when he’d all but chased Merlin off the continent with a broomstick. It was more of a vacation than it was work, but it was the sort of thing Gaius would say was for Merlin’s own good. So Merlin had been bundled, protesting loudly, onto a plane, and he had flown across the ocean and he’d been dumped into New York City, at a big horse back riding conference that felt strange and a little out of place amidst all the grandeur. Still, they had popcorn and events every hour, and the area was big enough that Merlin went unnoticed, whether he was curled half around himself in the bleachers, or tucked near the back of the crowd at the far end of the arena, the metal bars that formed the ring digging into his stomach.

It was a habit born of self-imposed exile that he wouldn’t get any closer, but he was enjoying watching. The girl was too young yet to be anything like a champion, but she was good. She moved with her horse, and the dialogue between them was something beautiful to watch. She had a prosthetic leg, according to the brochure, but her interaction with the animal was seamless. It was the sort of moment that made Merlin smile, because he’d dedicated every conscious moment since his accident to therapeutic horseback riding at Camelot Stables, which Gaius owned. “That’s the ticket,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Ride much?” a voice asked, somewhere to his left.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, “Did you try to find the nearest non-American person you could?” he eyed the man who’d appeared next to him, unfamiliar, so not a reporter who Merlin knew, but Merlin was wary—always wary—that someone would come out of the woodwork with a question that would knock him back down on his arse.

The man’s laugh was warm, and Merlin made an effort to pull his shoulders down from around his ears. The protective hunch was pretty much his permanent state whenever he was outside the safety of Camelot. That was the thing about freak accidents, really, and Merlin’s accident had been the freakiest he’d ever heard of, they destroyed your sense of trust in the world. “I might’ve been missing someone who speaks my language,” the stranger admitted. “But you sound more Irish than me, so I missed my mark.” He held out his hand, grinning, “I’m Leon,” he added when Merlin just looked at it.

“Merlin,” he said finally, offering half a smile and his hand.

“What an interesting name,” there was a pause, and Merlin could see the moment Leon put two and two together. “Are you—”

“I should be going,” Merlin announced, pushing back from the railing and glancing over his shoulder at the girl on the big, ugly horse. He’d been enjoying their performance, but some things—like his dignity—were worth protecting. “Nice meeting you.”

“Hey, no, wait,” Leon reached out and grabbed Merlin’s arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ve just heard of you.”

Merlin inclined his head, “Not surprising,” he said quietly, tugging slightly on his arm until Leon let go. Merlin took another step backwards, preparing to make a break for it, but Leon spoke over the rush of panic in Merlin’s ears.

“No, I mean, your work at Camelot. What you’re doing with those kids—“ Leon broke into a wide smile, “It’s the kind of thing I’ve always wanted to get into. My coach, though, he’s not so big on the charity gigs.”

“Who do you ride with?” Merlin asked, curious now, but still tense. He was poised to run, like a horse, he thought ruefully—at least he wasn’t cornered. Still, his curiosity was getting the best of him. Just because he hadn’t let the equestrian world keep tabs on him didn’t mean he’d never kept tabs on them.

“Uther Pendragon.”

Leon looked proud when he said it, and so he should. Uther’s team was notoriously hard to get on—rigorous and intense, and it only took riders who had been riding for nearly as long as they’d been walking. Uther’s riders were famously brutal--but definitely champions, and it made sense that Uther was “not so big on charity gigs.” Merlin had never met the man, but he’d competed against some of his riders, and had thought the lot of them to be bratty and irresponsible, as though they were entitled to the trophy just for showing up at the event, as though they deserved it, more than anyone else there. Leon, though, seemed nice enough—and then Merlin remembered who he was. “You ride Green Knight, don’t you?” he asked.

“That’s me,” Leon smiled, “He’s a good horse.”

Good horse was something of an understatement, and that surprised Merlin more than anything else about his new acquaintance. Uther’s horses, like his riders, were well bred champions. They weren’t good horses, they were works of art, they were expensive, and, much like their riders and their trainer, famously stand-offish. Green Knight was one of the most amazing horses Merlin had ever had the pleasure of competing against, he said as much to Leon.

“I remember riding against you,” Leon answered, his grin rueful. “I knew I didn’t stand a chance the second I saw you take the first jump. I got quite the tongue lashing after that show, but in all honesty, if I’d had my way I would have withdrawn. I was too green to be competing with you.”

“You rode well. Really, mate. I was impressed.”

“You were impressed with my horse,” Leon answered, laughing again. “Not with his rider.” The conversation fell into a comfortable lull, and Merlin’s guard dropped down enough that he returned to watching the girl in the ring. She was at the end of her ride, now, and dropped into a salute. There were no judges, the gesture was directed at the crowd. They cheered for her, and Merlin took a slow and steady breath. This was the healthiest he’d felt in a long time. His back didn’t ache, he had been walking straight all day. Maybe getting out of England had been good for him, after all.

“I was sorry to hear about your accident,” Leon said finally. “You were--”

Whatever Leon was going to say was cut off. A harried looking blond appeared at his elbow. “Leon,” she said, her voice low and insistent. “We have to go, something’s gone wrong with Arthur.”

Merlin frowned. “Arthur?” he said quietly, following along as the woman tugged Leon away from the arena.

“Merlin!” someone shouted, “Merlin Emrys! How do you feel about Arthur Pendragon’s accident?”

Merlin froze, caught off guard by the reported who had all but appeared at his elbow. In another life, in another world, he would have thought him quite handsome. In this life, there was a recording device in front of his mouth, and the man’s smile was honestly interested, and familiar. “I know you,” Merlin said.

“I interviewed you a few years ago, for my Uni’s column on sports, but Merlin, how do you feel about Arthur’s accident? ”

“I don’t know anything about Arthur’s accident,” Merlin said, his voice rough and automatic. “I don’t think I ever will.”

And then he ran, because when Merlin was a little boy he’d thought his destiny was to be a champion. He’d been wrong, and running from it ever since.

That’s the funny thing about destiny, though. It catches up with you.

 

 

Camelot Stables was located reasonably far outside the city. It preserved the air of solitude that Merlin thought all barns should have, but at the same time made sure his commute wasn’t mind-numbing. Even if he stayed at the barn more than at his flat, it was still nice to know the drive could be made. The barn itself, tonight, after a long time away, stood sturdy and beautiful against the backdrop of stars. Merlin felt like he was being welcomed home as the wind ruffled the trees that lined the long drive up to the old barn.

His godfather, Gaius, was the owner and founder of the therapeutic riding facility. Alongside Merlin’s father, the man had created a haven for children and adults alike, with a range of illness and injury—both physical and mental. It was haven for Merlin too, a place away from London’s busy thrum and all his coursework. It was an amazing place, a Utopia of sorts. But most importantly, it was home.

A half-mile beyond the barn, up a lazily escalating hill, stood Gaius’s house. The lights were still on in the kitchen, which Merlin took to mean that his godfather was awake, waiting to see if Merlin would stop by the barn. Predictably, when the headlights of Merlin’s trusty old car crested the last small hill into the lot, a dark silhouette appeared in the kitchen window. It stood there for a second then walked away. The lights in the house went off, and Merlin laughed and jumped out of the car.

“Apparently just knowing I’m home means he doesn’t have to walk out here in the dark,” he informed the barn in front of him.

“Well I don’t mind walking out here in the dark,” a familiar voice said from somewhere to his left. Merlin spun around, laughing, just in time to catch the bundle of breeches and curly hair.

“Guinevere!” he said, hugging her tightly. “I told you I wasn’t going to die in a plane crash.”

She hit him hard on the shoulder. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t die! I knew it,” she paused, “Not that these things don’t happen, and that people get upset when there are plane crashes, I mean, it’s completely valid for people to be afraid, I just meant I knew _you_ weren’t going to die in a fiery explo-”

“It’s good to see you too, Gwen,” Merlin said, cutting off her ramble before she got too into it. He squeezed her waist one last time before letting go completely and turning to lead the way back into the relative warmth and light of the barn.

Gwen wanted to know everything about his trip. She wanted to know if there had been any exceedingly hot new PT experts at the conference, if the food at the American restaurants had been any good, and if the New York accent was as intense as the movies made it seem. Merlin answered her questions as best he could, but mostly just let her ask. She seemed glad to have someone to talk to, or at least someone who talked back. Both of them talked to the horses, but aside from the occasional nibble or stomped hoof, neither of them got much in the way of responses.

Gwen ducked off to go find the barn cat who, she insisted, had missed Merlin intensely, and Merlin went off to visit his horses.

The first stall he visited, as he always did, was The Fisher King’s.

Merlin called him Fish, for short, as he always had, because the show name (although impressive on the circuit) was a mouthful, and too pretentious to be shared between friends. The beautiful black stallion looked at him calmly over his stall door, and to anyone else, Fish might have seemed unenthusiastic for the return of his rider, but Merlin knew better. Fish didn’t look over his stall door often, and the horse nickered welcomingly as Merlin finally rested a hand on his face, gently rubbing the white star hidden under his soft forelock.

“Hello, friend,” he whispered. Even the quiet words echoed in the otherwise silent stable. “I missed you.”

Fish met his gaze appraisingly, the warm brown eye surveying Merlin for a second before Fish finally lowered his head and wuffed a soft breath against the pocket of Merlin’s jacket.

“Yes, yes, yes, I brought you an apple,” Merlin chuckled. He broke it in half, holding one half out on his flattened palm, bringing the other half to his mouth. He bit into the apple, watching as his horse, _his_ prize stallion did the same.

There had been a time when Merlin and The Fisher King had been destined for shared greatness. The Equestrian world had been swept up in the story of the lean young rider and his beautiful stallion—both young, both incredibly talented. They’d taken the Irish show circuit by a storm, and his mother and his coach had pressed upon him the importance of realizing his talent. They shooed him off to show in the UK, who had shooed him off to show in the US, and eventually, despite his youth, Merlin had begun to realize his dreams of being a famous rider, an Olympic one, probably.  He’d been favored, the young Irish riding prodigy who would turn around the lack of medals the team had won in the past.

His chances were good. His horse was strong. His form impeccable and even some of the more famous equestrians were known to take him out to lunch, or ask if he’d like to go for a trail ride, or a friendly competitive race when he was home on break. The eventing season in Britain ran from March to October every year, and he spent his off months training. Occasionally headed to Florida or Australia for a light level competition to keep him and Fish on their feet.

Merlin’s first competition at the highest level of international eventing was the Kentucky Rolex—three days after his eighteenth birthday. He won without contest on a borrowed horse. The Kentucky was a test run for Merlin, to see how he handled the stress. Fish had remained in the UK, watched by Gaius. If Merlin did well at the Rolex, Fish and Merlin would ride next in the Badminton Trials, one week later, in Britain. The win was exciting for Merlin, who was the youngest competitor that year, but it would have been better, he’d thought, on his horse.

The Badminton Trials were the second leg in the Grand Slam of Eventing (the Triple Crown of horse showing) and Merlin had anticipated being able to compete at the highest level of competition since he was sixteen and taking champion at every level of competition he and Fish were allowed to compete in. The Badminton was his first real shot at international fame and glory, at proving himself to be one of the best riders in the world. As the second leg, it was pivotal for the rider who won the first. The only rider to ever win all three events, and thus take the title of champion, was Pippa Funnell in 2003. If Merlin won Badminton, he realistically could win all three. Just the thought of it made his head spin.

Merlin remembered that morning so clearly.

He remembered waking up and walking down to the barn at 4am, stretching himself out as he went, his boots shoved on over his pajama bottoms, his hair a mess. He’d grabbed Fish and walked into the ring, and they’d walked around in circles, Merlin talking, Fish snorting like he knew what Merlin was saying. As other riders, more appropriately dressed, started to appear, Merlin walked Fish back to his stall. He leaned up against his horse, taking in the warmth of the beautiful black coat, and whispered “This is it, this is for us.” Fish bit his shoulder, which Merlin took as agreement.

Merlin won the Badminton. The press went wild. They hailed him as some sort of prodigy. He was shocked to hear from Pippa, the 2003 champion, who told him that if he could do what she’d done at half her age, then he should do just that and be proud of himself. The words were spoken in the gruff tone he associated with the best riders he knew. He thanked her profusely and hugged his horse.

Merlin wasn’t an overconfident person, but he had, at one point in his life, been a proud and happy one. The few weeks between the Badminton Trials and the Burghely were the best in his life. He felt loved, he loved his horse, and he felt happier than he’d ever wanted to admit. Merlin dared to hope that he could win. He’d been wrong. The accident was still a fresh bitter taste in his mouth, even after all the months between that and now.

~~~

“Merlin?” Gwen’s voice shook him out of remembering the accident, the feeling of the sand in the ring grinding against his neck, the sound of his own bones cracking, and Fish’s frantic, heavy breathing.

Merlin visibly shook himself. He said nothing, just looked at Fish for a little while, slowly stroking the horse’s mane. He wished that he could say it didn’t bother him, but it did. Only Gwen knew that he still woke up screaming. She hadn’t known him when the accident happened, but she’d known of him. She’d hoped to compete in the ring one day, too, she just fell in love with helping other’s first. Merlin wasn’t sure what life without Gwen would be like, but he had an idea, and it wasn’t pleasant. She’d helped him more than he’d ever dreamed anyone could, for that, he was eternally grateful.

“We could’ve been good,” Merlin said finally. Merlin thought that a lot, but he didn’t often say it out loud. In the hospital, he’d always avoided saying it. Everyone was thinking it, he could read it on their faces, there was no reason to actually articulate it. No reason to make it any realer than it already was. Sometimes, he still wondered if they blamed him. He wasn’t entirely sure who “they” were, but he knew that they existed. They were the people who still talked about his accident, who wanted to know what would happen if he tried to show again. “They” were never far from Merlin’s thoughts. He hated them.

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen whispered, and wrapped her arms around him. Merlin hugged her for a little while, got lost in the smell of her fruity shampoo and the leathery barn. He held on to Gwen until the urge to cry over a past he couldn’t change left him, and then he let go.

It had been worse, recently, than it had been in a long while. His back hurt, he was depressed more often, and he found himself remembering. The nightmares, too, had gotten worse. The trip to New York was supposed to help calm him, but it hadn’t really. He’d heard about the Pendragon accident while he was there, and although that had been a few weeks ago, now, it still made his accident feel all the more recent.

“Did you hear about Arthur Pendragon?” Merlin asked. Gwen probably had, but she pretended that she hadn’t, so that he could tell her about something a little more real than memories.

~~~

“Heels down, chin up! Molly, don’t look so confused. If you pull on your reins and look in the corner, of _course_ that’s where Percival is going to go. Look straight ahead, loosen your hands. That’s the ticket!”

The tiny girl looked even tinier on the huge, muscular Clydesdale. The two were definitely not a traditional pairing, but Merlin knew that they would be great partners. He held his breath for her, automatically counting paces as Molly and Percival approached the low cross rail. She was a good jumper and a promising young rider. Merlin liked her. Molly had the kind of spunk people used to say he had, back before everything had gone to shit. She was outgoing, she spoke her mind, and she had a fantastic seat. The girl looked happy to be on a horse, and despite her disabilities, she had all the chance in the world to show legitimately. Merlin had been talking with her mother about some casual; local shows to test Molly and Percival out in. Neither had told the girl, and if today’s session went well, Merlin planned to break the news.

It went well. As Merlin told Gwen about Molly’s reaction, he talked with his hands. The girl’s happiness made him feel lighter too, despite the shadow of his own accident and the Pendragon accident. Merlin and Gwen were out on one of Camelot’s many trails, checking to see if any fallen logs or rocks would cause a dangerous situation for young riders. As he spoke, Merlin absentmindedly tangled and untangled his fingers in Fish’s mane.

He was in the middle of explaining how Molly had jumped up and down despite her bad leg when he realized Gwen wasn’t listening. She nodded absently for the fourth time and Merlin eyed her suspiciously.

“Yep. And then Molly and I eloped. It was great, went to Vegas and everything. Except the priest was late because there was a line for the loo,” Merlin continued, one eye on Gwen, the other on the trail.

“Sounds great, Merlin, I’m happy for you both,” Gwen murmured in response.

“Guinevere!”

“Hmmm?”

“What’s gotten into you? You’re distracted. I’m supposed to be the broody and distracted one in this relationship. I’ll need to find another flatmate.”

“Oh stop,” Gwen smiled, “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She paused and shifted uncomfortably in her saddle. “Merlin, have you ever been in love?”

“I, uh, what?”

Merlin had never been in love, he’d had crushes, sure. Gwen knew that. He and Will had messed around too, before he’d gotten serious about riding. Merlin cherished those nights in the field behind Crazy Old Mingus’s barn, because they reminded him of what it felt like to be human. Merlin loved Will and suspected Will loved him, but Merlin was definitely _not_ in love. Nor had he ever been. There hadn’t been time for romance when he was just beginning, and now he didn’t care.“No, Gwen, I haven’t.” He paused, then said, “Are uh, are you?”

Gwen didn’t answer him, she was silent for a long time, and then abruptly turned her horse, Galahad, back toward Camelot. She didn’t say anything; he wasn’t going to get much of an answer like this.

“Gwen, what—” Merlin started to ask, but he was cut off as Gwen galloped back the way they came. Merlin sat for a few seconds in stunned silence, before he picked up an easy trot. “Don’t worry, Fish,” he said softly, stroking his horse’s neck, “She’s just a stupid ugly showoff. Galloping on the trail is overrated.”

~~~

“Gwen,” Merlin said forty minutes later, his voice barely hiding his shock and a little bit of anger, “Why is Morgana Le Fey standing in my office?”

“Well, I mean. She’s famous. So that’s a good thing. And we’re kind of. Kind of friends, yeah?” Gwen said slowly. “And well, she’s got a brother. Not that that’s a bad or a good thing. But she wants to take a lesson.”

Merlin’s mouth must have been hanging open, because Gwen reached out and touched his chin. He couldn’t think of another reason for her to touch his chin. “No.”

“Well, she just wants to meet you. She knows about you –“ Gwen hesitated, “From before. From when you were showing. She’s really impressed with your past and everything.”

Merlin paled, and then bristled. He wasn’t sure why the subject was still such a touchy one, especially with Gwen. She was the best flatmate in the world, and never made fun of him when she caught him on the couch at 4am, watching old training videos from back when he was a rising star.

“I don’t,” he said shortly, “I don’t want to meet anyone who has questions about my past. I don’t care if it’s that stupid reporter for the magazine who wants to do an article on my ‘tragic accident’ or the Queen or fucking Morgana Le Fey the actress. I want nothing to do with anything about my past. OK Gwen? You should know that, you better than anyone. I can’t go back there. I don’t want to speculate about what could have been, it’s been a year since I got on a horse again, and I just want to move on. Please, Gwen.” Merlin wanted to sound a lot stronger than he came out, but he couldn’t help himself.

All the therapy sessions in the world couldn’t fix the part of him that remained broken. No hospitals or surgery could give him back that hope he used to have. He could care about the kids, like Ashley, who had the potential to do great things despite their disabilities, but Merlin himself was broken, The Fisher King was broken, and the sooner all these people who kept popping out of the past let them alone, the better things would be. “My past is in the past, and I think we just need to forget about it.”

“I can’t let that happen,” spoke a new voice from the door to the tack room. Its owner strode into the room, just as stately and impeccable as her voice. Not a hair out of place or a piece of hay stuck to her, despite the fact that Merlin and Gwen were both disheveled and there was definitely hay stuck to his sweater and probably caught up in his hair as well. “I’m Morgana Le Fey,” the woman said, holding out a hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Merlin.”

Merlin just stared. “Look, Ms Le Fey,” he began. He had a whole spiel ready. He was going to give her the names of great coaches in the area, tell her that he loved she was interested in riding, but she cut him off.

“Call me Morgana, please, and it’s not me who needs the lessons, it’s my brother. Does the name Arthur Pendragon mean anything to you?”

The stories had been splashed across the equine news for weeks. It was the worst accident in recent memory aside from Merlin’s own. It was just as inexplicable. And Merlin was, after New York, intimately familiar with the details.

The facts were these. Arthur Pendragon had mounted his horse, Arcturus, in preparation for the match. Everything had gone smoothly, he’d done his usual charming, tongue in cheek salute to the judges. The first three jumps were perfect. Just before the fourth one, something went wrong. Arcturus and Arthur were on the ground. They both stayed down. Arthur spent one month in the hospital barely lucid enough to know his own name. When he woke up, his horse was dead, his career was on thin ice, and everyone in the world wanted an interview.

Merlin knew the story upside-down and sideways. He had the articles clipped away, snuck into a book he’d taken to New York with him, where Gwen or Will would never find them. It was so similar—he couldn’t help but wonder…but no. He’d dismissed the thought of foul play early on in the original investigation of his accident. He never wanted to think of it again. But the clippings stayed there, and he’d followed the news. He’d been relieved when Arthur had woken up from his coma and heartbroken when Arcturus had been put down. Merlin knew this story well, it had been his. Although, his own ending had been happier, at least.

Merlin could sympathize with the other man, but he didn’t know why Arthur Pendragon had anything to do with him, and knowing who Arthur was didn’t explain why Morgana Le Fey was standing in his office, or why he’d decided to hear her out.

He was a little slow processing it, which would of course explain why Gwen and Morgana managed to talk him into a trail ride. He was so busy trying to work out Arthur Pendragon’s involvement in the whole situation that he couldn’t come up with a viable excuse.

That was how Merlin found himself sitting on Fish, watching Morgana Le Fey, the thrice Oscar nominated, once tony winning singer and actress, and Gwen, his best friend and the most wonderfully normal person he knew, gossip like schoolgirls. The day was crisp and cold, but the trails were clear and pleasant, and Merlin found that he really was enjoying himself. He decided it was a bonding experience, and besides, Morgana clearly knew her way around a horse, which meant that he could enjoy his day without spending time reminding her to keep her heels down or to look where she was going. Morgana was pleasant and just about the most beautiful woman Merlin had ever seen.

No one talked about Arthur again, and Merlin was so wrapped up in feeling good about Fish, about Gwen, about Morgana, that he didn’t even think to bring it up.

The day was surreal in a good way.

~~~

“It wouldn’t hurt you to sleep at home, some nights,” Gwen commented from across the tack room. She was watching Merlin do one of his unhealthy habits—cleaning his old dressage saddle until it shined like he was about to enter the show ring and remind the world of the rider he used to be. Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Harpy,” he mumbled, which wasn’t really an answer. Merlin believed it fully covered his range of emotions on the subject, though.

Gwen laughed her quiet little laugh, and Merlin felt guilty for being smarmy. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I know you’re just worried about me, but you don’t have to be. I’m not cleaning this to waste away in self pity, I’m cleaning it because I want to keep my hands busy. Besides, Fish was looking tired after all the riding today. I just want to stay close, just for now, ok?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Gwen finished packing her bag. She kissed Merlin’s cheek on the way out. Merlin knew that was both a scolding and acquiescence. He thought for a second about how much he really truly loved Gwen, because she was the best. The absolute best.

Merlin sat in the tack room, idly rubbing his sore leg and thinking that it was probably going to snow tomorrow, and watched Gwen’s taillights until she crested over the last hill and he was once again enveloped in the warm silence of the stable.

“Merlin.”

So much for quiet. He didn’t recognize the voice, however, and put the saddle back on its rack before moving toward the tack room door.

“Merlin.”

He frowned. “Hullo?” he said cautiously.

Merlin moved slowly down the aisle. He grabbed a pitchfork off the nearby wall, for self-defense, he supposed, and took a deep breath as he rounded the corner.

“MERLIN.”

He jumped about three feet in the air, but the barn aisle was empty. It was just horses, none poking their heads out the stall doors to indicate alarm. The barn was quiet, the horses were calm. Merlin took a shaky breath.

“Is this me?” he said out loud, “Finally going mad?”

“MERLIN!”

“No way. No bloody way.”

The only other living thing looking at the same barn aisle as Merlin at that very moment was a giant but ancient old Clydesdale named Kilgharrah. The kids all jokingly called him the Great Dragon because his combination of white, grey, and brown hairs made him look a little bit green.

“You have such a great destiny, Merlin. Your gift, Merlin, has a reason.”

“You’re a talking horse. Who keeps repeating my name.”

“Listen to me, Merlin. Without you, Arthur will never succeed. It is important that he should succeed. None of us can choose our destiny, and none of us can escape it. You are two sides of the same coin; one cannot exist without the other.”

Merlin was still staring at the horse in question. He’d known Kilgharrah for all of his life, it seemed strange that the horse would now be talking to him. Really, really strange. “You’re a talking horse,” he said again.

“You are slow, for one who is destined to be so great,” the horse said, tossing his head impatiently. “You may focus on what I am, or you may focus on what I am saying. This is important Merlin, you must help Arthur. He must succeed. There is so much danger, yet.”

Merlin paused for a moment, still looking at the horse. Kilgharrah, aside from being green, had the oldest eyes Merlin had ever seen. He bit down on his lip and looked away. Destiny? People didn’t talk of destiny anymore. Destiny was a thing of the past, not a vessel of the future. He knew there was destiny, once, just like he knew there were dragons, and wizards, and castles, and knights. The line blurred somewhere between legend and fact.

Of course, Merlin found it hard to count fact in when he was talking to a horse. A green horse named Kilgharrah.

“Wait,” Merlin said eventually, after considering his options. He was alone in the barn, there was no one to watch him talk to the horse, and he figured it wasn’t going to hurt to see what the animal had to say. If he woke up in a few hours, then at least it was a dream.

So Kilgharrah spoke to him, and Merlin dropped himself down on a hay bale to listen to tales of great kings and great wizards and of destiny. The horse told him about the choices presented, the choices made, and the consequences. He spoke of great kingdoms and namesakes. At the end of it, Merlin felt like he could write a book on Arthurian legend. He did not feel like he knew where this was going.

“So am I supposed to save a kingdom, wield some magic, or what?”

“You’re not listening, Merlin,” the horse rumbled. “The time of Camelot the city has passed, the legacy of Merlin and Arthur has become legend. You are here, today, a new person with old memories. But you are not alone. Morgana is back. Gwen is back. Even Arthur, though he is angry and afraid. You have suffered the loss of what you considered your greatest gift, but now you will discover all that you have to offer.”

“But—”

“There is another who has returned,” the horse/dragon said slowly. “He ruined so much once before and he will try once more. This time you must stop it. Destiny rarely gives second chances, Merlin. You and Arthur must not fail again.”

Then the old horse turned around in the stall and walked out into the pasture behind. No amount of coaxing could get him to return.

~~~

“You know, if you’re going to come in this late you could put your keys down instead of throwing them at the table. It’s a very nice table and doesn’t deserve your anger,” Gwen said grumpily from where she was curled up on the couch.

“I didn’t throw them. I placed them. Besides, you’re sleeping on the couch so you can’t yell at me,” he snapped.

With the grace only best friends could manage, when Merlin lay down next to Gwen, she forgave the sharpness of his words. She wrapped a warm arm around his shoulders and let him hide his face in her neck. That was the best part of Gwen, Merlin thought. She knew when he wanted to talk and when he wanted someone to hold him until the world stopped ending around his rather large ears.

“Call Morgana,” he said finally. “I’d like to meet Arthur.”

The grin that spread across Gwen’s face was slow and ponderous, and even though it said ‘I win, I win, I win’ in a childish voice, it was also so full of love and _Gwen_ that Merlin didn’t even wince, he just smiled back.

“I’ll do that in the morning,” Gwen announced, sounding pleased with herself. “Tonight, I’m going to make us tea, and we’ll watch _About a Boy_ and talk about Hugh Grant’s ass, and then maybe we’ll watch a Colin Firth movie.”

It sounded lovely, so much lovelier than talking horses, in fact, that Merlin decided not to mention it. Ever.

~~~

The Tuesday morning that Merlin and Morgana had agreed upon was clear, bright, and beautiful. That was his first and last good thought in five hours that came between his five am wake up and Arthur’s ten a.m. arrival at the barn.

Gwen made tea and toast because it was her morning to make breakfast. Her conversation was determinedly cheerful despite Merlin’s own blank look and blanker one word replies. Part of him was annoyed that they weren’t talking about the real problem here: the regret he had for saying yes, that strange moment of weakness that came after a horse talked to him. Merlin thought that the many therapists Gaius had hired and Merlin had fired would attribute this to post traumatic stress. They would all probably agree with Gwen—they would say that meeting Arthur was good for Merlin. They would say that it was time to bury that hatchet.

Merlin let Gwen drive the pair of them to the barn, even though it was his turn. He stared out the window and counted the trees that passed him. He tried to blink his eyes in time with the fence posts they passed, and was frustrated when he couldn’t manage it. Merlin felt a strange trickle from the back of his head forward, like a forgotten brain cell was wriggling through the cracks in his sanity and pushing itself forward. After that, he had no trouble blinking exactly when the window lined up with the posts.

Gwen hopped out of the car as soon as she cut the ignition, and the slam of her door made Merlin jump. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood as he watched her walk away, the smooth purple of her worn breeches disappearing into the darkness of the pre-dawn barn. He swallowed hard and gripped the door handle, counting slowly to fifteen then back down again. A trick one of the many therapists suggested—it never worked.

Merlin could have stayed in the car all morning, but the thought of facing Arthur without a good ride to work off his nerves made him slip out of the soothing leather interior and step into the cool air. Moisture wrapped around him like a blanket, and he took a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the dimness around him.

Even in the pitch black, Merlin knew his feet could map their way into the barn without his brain thinking about it, but when he blinked and found himself in front of Fish’s stall and couldn’t remember walking there. He’d just--it was like he’d just appeared. Merlin shook the feeling off and got to work quietly grooming his horse. He kept up a steady conversation; relieved for once that Fish was not the kind of horse who talked back.  

Normally he and Gwen rode together, but today he rode alone. He had wasted too much time for a good trail ride, but he and Fish made their way out to the cross country course, way back behind the barn, where the curtain of trees and bushes provided some privacy from Gaius’s farm house and Gwen’s current tack room position. Merlin knew they both wanted to watch him, just like he knew he didn’t want to be watched. This was the only time of day he could pretend he still had a future, and as he let Fish slip into a steady canter and they circled the course, he pretended there was never an accident.

Once upon a time, it hadn’t been dangerous for Merlin to gallop. There was no threat to his ankle, knee, or thigh. His hand would never cramp, and his back wouldn’t ache when he rose into a three-point position for too long. Those days were long gone, but once in a while when he was stressed or frightened or so unhappy that he couldn’t see straight, Merlin played this game of pretend. He could be the vibrant youth he’d once been. He was healed; he and Fish could take over the world.

Together they did a few jumps. Fish and Merlin communicated the same as they always had, through a seamless bond. Looking at them, it was impossible to tell where they became two separate creatures. Merlin slid his hand down Fish’s neck as they landed a jump, and it was easy to mistake it for a light patch on the horse’s coat.

The feeling of belonging in the world snapped back into place as Merlin made one last circuit before he and Fish slowed for a cool down. The ride had not been nearly long enough, but the day stretched out ahead of him, and he could no longer put it off. Merlin closed his eyes as they made lazy circles around the course. Finally, when their twin breaths evened out, Merlin slowed Fish to a halt. He dismounted, and with one last glance at the jumps, turned to walk his horse back up to the barn--and the real world

Each step was sure footed, there was no chance of stumbling. Merlin kept his eyes closed, trusting the strange feeling this new warmth in his head created as it moved through his brain. He became more familiar with it as they moved, and he knew suddenly, without a doubt, that this was an ancient part of him.

For just a moment, Merlin felt as though he was sleeping.

For the briefest of seconds, a battlefield was painted behind his eyelids, and blue eyes more familiar than his own crinkled in the corners as soft lips formed slow, steady words.

But Merlin couldn’t hear them.

He fought to get a better grip on the image, to bring it more into focus. Almost like a warning, his back twinged, and then began to ache.

Merlin’s eyes snapped open and he dropped Fish’s reins. He stood in the middle of the path with wide eyes and shaking hands, his horse nudging at Merlin’s shoulder in concern.

Merlin swallowed thickly, then finally reached out and traced a hand over Fish’s neck. “Sorry.” He exhaled, his body thrumming with pain and a longing that he couldn’t find a name for. “Fish,” he said finally, slinging a long arm around his best-animal-friend’s neck, “It’s going to be a bloody long day.”

~~~

There was a black car. The squeal of breaks. Flying dust.

There was the sound of a horse in pain.

Then there was silence of the blackest kind.

He struggled to find his way out, clawing at the blackness. He screamed for help, but no one came.

The morning Merlin and Morgana agreed to meet on started the same way it always did. Arthur Pendragon woke up screaming,

The first month or so after the accident, Morgana used to come in and sit with him. She would hold his hand or pet his hair in a way that was so matronly, Arthur began to suspect she was causing all the nightmares.

He told her about them, too. At first. After a while she grew tired (she didn’t say, but he could tell) of running in and touching him. When she knew the dream almost as well as he did, she stopped coming. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t ask.

She was his sister, for the most part. She was a famous actress. She won awards for her performances. He, Arthur, the golden boy, was an invalid. He didn’t do anything anymore. He was holding her back.

Arthur’s mornings started like that every single day. First the dream, with the inexplicable car and dust (nothing like that had happened on the day of The Accident, at least not that he could remember). Next, the thought of Morgana and how much he missed her presence in the morning. Finally, the realization that he was hurting his sister with every moment he didn’t get better.

His nutritious morning helping of self loathing was interrupted, however, when Morgana poked her head in the room. She didn’t say anything about the screaming, it was a topic they both avoided, but her eyes were sad and older than they’d been Before, with a capital B, because--well, in Arthur’s mind, After could not be anything but capitalized.

“Don’t forget I’m taking you out today,” Morgana said. “Wear jeans. And a shirt you don’t mind getting dirty.”

“Morgana, if this is another one of those ‘Arthur come help me build a house so they can take pictures!’ moments, I’m going to have to insist you let me stay in bed.”

“It isn’t, and those are fun. Besides, I think everyone would like to see Uther Pendragon’s children out and about again.”

It was a pointed comment, and one that made Arthur look down at his hands. His father—that was a bridge no one dared to cross anymore—was Important. He was Important for Various Reasons, but mostly for being rich. Arthur had grown up in the spotlight, and his absence of late had been noticed.

Not that anyone thought he had a stupid reason for staying locked away. For the most part, people seemed to understand. Well, they had at first. Now he saw his name in the headlines on slow news days. Speculation as to where he’d gone to hide. He hadn’t actually gone anywhere; he’d been hiding in his London flat for ages. It was the least obvious place to be. The Cardiff home and cottage in Ireland were considered private, so press that hoped to see the missing Arthur Pendragon often scoured both those locations. He never saw anyone with cameras waiting outside his door in London, though.

He rolled out of bed and glanced in the mirror. His hair had grown back, covering the ugly patch of skin that had been shaved away when they operated. His side though was still--“Grotesque,” he said softly. The scar was truly ugly, starting just below the waistline of his pajama pants to the left of his left hipbone and continuing up his side, finally wrapping around his chest and stopping several inches above his belly button. He swallowed hard as he stared at it.

That would never go away, the doctors had told him. Arcturus’s hoof had done that as the horse flailed his last few moments in pain. Arthur hadn’t been awake for it, but that’s what the doctors had told him. His horse.

Arthur pulled a shirt on hurriedly, the soft fabric drew him away from the memory of sand and choking dust that wasn’t even a memory so much as a hallucination—an idea of what might have happened those moments. All he remembered of The Accident was the jump and then blue, so much blue sky—then nothing.

“Where are we going that I might be getting dirty?” he asked Morgana.

She covered her eyes when he pulled off his pajama bottoms and tugged on a pair of jeans. He stuck his tongue out at her, because he knew she couldn’t see it. “We’re going someplace new,” was all she’d tell him. “Come on, hurry up. We’ll be late. And don’t stick your tongue out at me, Arthur. It’s so childish.”

“I still don’t know what I’ll be late for,” he pointed out, but Morgana was flouncing out of the room and he had no real choice but to follow her.

~~~

“No.”

“Arthur we aren’t even _there_ yet.”

“Turn the bloody car around Morgana.”

“Arthur.”

“Morgana, I said no!” he almost yelled it, his hands balled tightly in his lap. He’d gone pale, and he could hear his harsh, ragged breaths as though he was someone else, watching himself. “I want to go home,” he sounded like a child.

She didn’t listen and the car kept moving forward, much to Arthur’s horror. The barn in the distance--he _knew_ it was a barn--only got larger. He could see horses now, cantering in the fields around the old building, eating grass, _living_. “How dare you,” he said, his voice low and more desperate than angry, despite what he was going for. “Morgana, how could you. You know I can’t—I’m not able—I wouldn’t---”

“You can ride, Arthur,” Morgana said, her voice patient but tired. “We’ve been over this a thousand times with your doctors, there isn’t anything wrong with you.”

“I can’t,” he repeated, still looking at the barn. He could see people now, two of them standing there. One a girl, definitely, the other maybe a girl, but also possibly a guy. Taller than the one with curly hair, although she?—no, definitely he—was leaning against a fence. Soon, Arthur could see their faces, one of them--the guy--was familiar.

The sign above the door proclaimed the stable to be Camelot Therapeutic Riding Center. Arthur threatened to walk home as Morgana maneuvered into a parking spot. “No,” she said seriously. “Gwen is my friend and I won’t have you being rude.”

“There are a thousand places like this begging to get me to visit, Morgana, I’ve said no every time. I can’t ride horses, I don’t want to try.”

“Get out of the car, Arthur,” she snapped.

Arthur listened.

That was how he found himself standing in front of the two people. “Gwen,” Morgana said, giving the girl a hug. She pressed a fond hand to the guy’s shoulder. “Good to see you both.” She sounded so sincere that Arthur was almost caught off guard. “This is my brother, well, half brother, Arthur.”

“I’m Guinevere,” the girl held out her hand, “Call me Gwen. Lovely to meet you, really. I’ve always admired your riding.”

Arthur’s smile was tight as he took her hand and shook it. “Pleasure is mine,” he said stiffly.

The guy shifted and finally held out his hand. “I’ll be your—” he hesitated, “Instructor, I guess. I’m Merlin.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped, despite his best efforts to retain his composure. That was--unexpected. “Merlin _Emrys_?” he demanded.

The guy just nodded.

“Arthur won’t admit it, but he’s a huge fan. He’s seen your competition videos at least a million times,” Morgana chimed in. Arthur glared at her.

“I’ve always admired your fluidity with your horse. Not many riders can accomplish that. You two make a great show team.”

“Made a great show team,” Merlin corrected him. Arthur flinched.

“Right, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“S’fine,” Merlin said. He turned away.

Gwen smiled apologetically, Morgana frowned disapprovingly, and Arthur looked longingly back at the safety of his car.

Through some small mercy, Gwen guided Morgana away from the barn as Arthur followed Merlin into it. He could be relieved, at least, that she wasn’t going to have to watch him fail. He was disappointing his family, Arthur knew, but there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. His days as a rider were long since over, and standing here, even with Merlin Emrys, wouldn’t change that.

“You’re wasting your time,” Arthur said as they walked down the long aisle. “I’m not going to get on a horse again.”

Merlin just shrugged and said nothing.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Arthur added, “When I was talking about you and The Fisher King. I wasn’t thinking.”

Again, Merlin shrugged.

Arthur fell silent. The conversation wasn’t coming easily, and he was too tired--or maybe he just didn’t care enough--to try and make one. They turned left, and finally, Merlin stopped outside a stall.

“This is your horse,” Merlin told him, pointing at the door in front of them. The horse was a young gelding, happily swaying its head back and forth. A beautiful palomino, soft and light in color. Arthur was almost tempted to touch him, but he kept his hands firmly at his side.

“My horse is dead.”

Merlin shifted uncomfortably. “Well, this is the horse you’ll be riding, then.”

“I’m not riding. Thank you for making the trouble to arrange this.”

Arthur had on his pleasing smile. His good company smile. The smile his father trained him to wear before he could even sit up on his own. Merlin didn’t smile back, he just looked at Arthur with tired eyes.

    “That’s your choice, mate,” he said quietly.

  Arthur watched as Merlin let himself into the stall and then brought the horse out on crossties. He watched, silent and disbelieving as Merlin groomed him. He stared, his fingers curled against his side--in anger or restraint, he wasn't sure. The urge to reach out and touch Gwaine battled with the urge to punch Merlin in his infuriatingly calm face. Merlin brushed past Arthur and grabbed Gwaine' tack. Finally, Arthur had to speak.

    “I’m sorry, did you misunderstand me? I’m not riding.”

  “Like I said, mate, that’s your choice. I’ll ride him then,” Merlin stroked the horse’s smooth neck. “Gwaine needs attention, his rider isn’t coming in today anyway. I just thought he’d be a good mount for you.”

    “Well he won’t,” Arthur said stubbornly, crossing his arms.

  Infuriatingly, Merlin just shrugged again. He finished fiddling with the horse’s bridle and led him out of the barn. Arthur followed a few steps behind, watching the way Merlin moved. He was confident next to a horse, that was obvious, but Arthur had already known about Merlin—so of course he’d known he was good. There was something in the way he carried himself, an easy pride. A comfortableness in his own skin that Arthur envied. It was a sort of grace.

  Merlin touched his back, his hand pressing against the small of it like it was a familiar action. He rubbed slowly, and Arthur realized that Merlin’s pace had slowed a little. There was the faintest hint of a limp in his step. Merlin’s easy grace wasn’t grace, it was adjustment. He moved confidently, but it was fake. Arthur watched Merlin slow down and swing what must have been his good leg forward, compensating. Merlin’s shoulders tensed and he turned, just a little, catching Arthur staring. Arthur looked away.

    For a few moments, neither of them moved.

  Merlin was the first to shift. He slowed to a stop and swung up onto the horse, an easy near-fluid movement. There was a hitch at the top as Merlin went to swing his leg over Gwaine’s back. He held still once he was sat, breathing slowly. Arthur could see that he was paler.

    “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Fine.” Merlin’s reply was terse and harsh. His cheeks flushed red. He nudged Gwaine to a trot, leaving Arthur behind him in the dust. Arthur watched Merlin ride for a long time. He watched the slow circles around the ring, the comfortable trot. He watched Merlin canter for a little while. Merlin took a few jumps—but only two, and right after he slowed to a walk, leaning heavily on his horse. Arthur’s eyes followed him, the slump in Merlin’s frame and the rapid jerks of his shoulders as he caught his breath.

  “Merlin?” someone called from behind him. Arthur turned and saw Gwen hurrying out. She moved quickly over to Merlin, blocking Arthur’s view for a moment as Merlin finally swung down from the horse. Merlin gripped Gwen’s arm, looking pained.

  “What happened?” Arthur heard Gwen say. Merlin just shook his head, his lips tight. When he walked by Arthur his limp was more pronounced. Gwen, who Merlin was leaning against, dropped Gwaine’s reigns into Arthur’s hand. The pair disappeared into the barn, leaving Arthur with a horse that needed a cool down and a good grooming.

  He sighed. “Come on then,” he said quietly, clucking his tongue. The gelding ambled next to him as they walked around the ring. When enough time had passed that Arthur no longer felt like he was going to interrupt something if he went up to the barn, he lead Gwaine up to his stall, grabbed his grooming bucket, and spent a few minutes taking deep breaths before he finally got started. He had to untack Gwaine first, and he spent a few moments quietly apologizing to the horse for leaving him in his saddle while he had a minor identity crisis in the aisle.

  Had anyone asked Arthur how he felt as he groomed the lithe palomino, he would have looked at them like they were stupid. “Like I do every day,” he would have said, rolling his eyes. He would have been lying, though. As Arthur groomed that stupid horse, he felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

~~~

  Merlin doubled over in the tack room, sagging half against Gwen and half against the wall. He was going to be sick. God, he was going to be sick.

  Gwen helped lower him on to one of the benches, her hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Merlin?” she was saying, her voice a little frantic under the forced calm. “Merl, what's wrong? Hey, hey what’s wrong?”

  “My back,” he said quietly, his voice hitching a little as he pushed his hands through his hair. He could tell they were trembling. Seconds passed, then minutes before his breathing and shaking finally slowed, until the pain in his back abetted enough for him to straighten.

    “Merlin, what the bloody hell was that?” Gwen hissed, “Have you been having attacks again?”

  Merlin shook his head and swallowed hard. “No,” he said. “I haven’t, Gwen I swear. I haven’t had an attack like that in months.”

  His last one had been three months ago. He’d ridden too hard too soon and had been laid up in bed for almost a week. That had been about six or seven months after the first time he’d gotten on a horse. They were halfway through October now, almost a year since the Christmas Day Gwen had convinced him he needed to start riding again.

  Stress could bring them on though, that’s what Gaius had told him. The attacks—what Merlin called them, they had some medical name he’d never cared to remember—had been explained to him as a real possibility almost immediately upon waking. “You may never ride again,” a nurse had said, patting his shoulder like she cared, “But if you do, riding too much won’t end well for you.”

  “Well then what caused _that?_ ” Gwen snapped. There was a real bite in her words, a frosty sort of intensity that Merlin knew was just worry, but it still stung.

    “I’ve been riding a lot,” he admitted. “Maybe more than I should.”

  “How much?” Gwen asked, looking suddenly tired. She dropped down onto a bench, leaving Merlin standing there, framed between the lesson saddles and his old show saddles.

    “Four or five hours a day since I got back from New York,” he admitted.

    Her gaze was sharp, but she didn’t say anything. There was a long, tense moment where Merlin thought he was going to get yelled at, but Gwen just stood and hugged him. Gwen was warm and familiar, all soft curves and curly hair, and Merlin let himself be held.

  Ever since the accident, Merlin had felt like he was drowning. He was underwater and everything was blurred, and looking--trying to focus--just stung his eyes and made his lungs burn. He wanted to leave, to breathe, but the waves had distorted his senses, and he didn’t know which way was up.

  Merlin didn’t like feeling so helpless, so after a while he pushed Gwen away. He toyed with being angry, maybe storming off up to the house and refusing to come out until Arthur left, but Merlin didn’t have it in him.

    The door to the tack room shut softly behind him, and he walked away. His boots clicked against the wood of the aisle, but Gwen didn't follow him. Merlin ran a hand through his hair and sighed. The horses were all looking at him curiously. He could just see Kilgharrah’s stall, and the big horse’s green tinted ears. He looked away. His gaze fell on Gwaine’s stall, which Arthur was letting himself out of.

Arthur wasn’t limping. Arthur wasn’t falling over in fits of pain. He was walking. Golden and glowing like the horse he’d refused to ride. Merlin felt a swell of anger rise up in him because it _wasn’t fair_. After a year, though, people start to think you’re crazy for still being angry. You should get over it, they whispered, shooting glances at him. Local shows wondered why he didn’t come to judge. Sportscasters bantered about his absence on the circuit, even as a spectator or trainer. Arthur could go back to a life where that wasn't the case. He just wouldn't.

    Merlin opened his mouth to snap at the stupid git walking down the hall. A childish insult hung on the tip of his tongue.

    Arthur looked concerned. “Are you all—”

    “Fine.”

  “Right, just checking. I was wondering…” Arthur trailed off, looking almost uncomfortable—or the Arthur version of it, anyway. He still looked irritatingly composed to Merlin. “I’d like to meet the Fisher King, if I could?”

    No. Merlin thought angrily, you can’t. He’s _my_ horse. But his mouth said, “Sure. Follow me.”

   

~~~

    The hardest part of the accident had been learning how to be broken.

  No part of Merlin had ever been broken before. He lived an average life, with an above average mum, in an average part of Ireland. He lived tucked away amongst the hills and red built barns and his days had been routine. He’d had an ordinary best friend and he’d gotten a wonderful horse.

  Fish had been a present from Gaius when both Merlin and the horse had seemed impossibly young. Merlin used to joke in interviews that they’d done the worst of their growing together, and now they had the right to be on top of the world. It didn’t matter, now, but Merlin still thought about it sometimes.

  The smile that spread over his face when Fish poked an elegant head out over the door was the easiest thing that Merlin had done all day. Merlin moved in close and the horse snuffled at his shoulder, then bumped his warm nose against Merlin’s back. “Yes,” he said softly to the horse, “I’m hurting today. I hope you’re faring better.”

  Arthur had stood back, Merlin noticed, a respectable distance away. He was just watching. Merlin could still tell him to leave and Arthur would, But Merlin didn’t tell him to leave, because he knew that expression on Arthur’s face. He’d seen it in the mirror of his own horrible hospital room. Merlin looked back at Fish and tried to imagine going through everything without him. He tried to imagine surviving the accident without his horse. He couldn’t. Merlin opened the stall door and slipped inside, curling his arm over Fish’s withers. “He won’t bite. Well. He hasn’t in a while,” Merlin said, looking up.

    Arthur moved haltingly, like he was in a dream.

  “Arcturus was the only colt my mother’s horse had,” Arthur said as he moved in front of Fish. “I had a huge fight with my sister over who would get to train him. I was lucky. Arcturus and I hit it off from the start,” he fell quiet. “My mother died before she saw me ride him,” Arthur added. “She died before she saw me ride at all, but it would’ve been special for her. Seeing me ride her horse’s son.”

  Merlin nodded his head and leaned against the wall of Fish’s stall. His back still ached and he knew he’d be limping for the next day, at least, but there was something pleasantly quiet about watching someone else with his horse. Fish was looking at him, as if to say ‘this okay?’ and Merlin could only smile. Hurting sucked. Breaking sucked. But not everything was bad.

    In the back of his mind, Merlin could hear the little voice he attributed to Gwen doing a victory dance.

  “I should go,” Arthur said before Merlin could say anything else. Again, Merlin only nodded. He didn’t necessarily want Arthur here. The day hadn’t exactly been fun. Merlin planted a kiss on Fish’s muzzle and moved away from the horse. He let Arthur out of the stall in front of him, then shut and locked the door tightly behind him. They’d learned early on that Fish was _very_ good with latches.

  “Arthur!” Morgana called, her voice sweet as sugar. Arthur visibly tensed. “Did you ride today?” she asked. Arthur looked uncomfortable, but Merlin noticed the genuine affection in the hand Morgana laid on her brother’s shoulder and  looked away.

  Morgana lead Arthur away then, out of the barn and out of Merlin’s line of sight. He sank down against the wall and listened to the sound of their voices as the pair moved away.

    “Merlin?”

  He looked up and smiled at Gwen, tipping his head to the side. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, “Just tired, you know. It’s been a long day.”

    Gwen nodded and dropped down next to him, bumping her shoulder against Merlin’s. “We can’t sit for a while,” she answered, “And then let’s head up to Gaius’s for tea. Then we’ll go home.”

    “I think I want to sl—”

  “You’re not sleeping at the barn again. For God’s sake Merlin, you’re going to make yourself sick! You’ve been limping since you got back from America. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?” her sigh could knock mountains over, and Merlin looked down at his feet.

    “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry! You haven’t got anything to be sorry for, just,” she groaned and stood up, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet as well. “Just be smarter, Merlin. It isn’t just you anymore.”

    “What?”

  “It’s all right to beat yourself up when it’s just you and me and Will,” Gwen answered, “Well it’s not all right, but Will and I, we can help you through your bad days. Arthur needs you.”

    “That’s rubbish Gwen, and you know it. He doesn’t want to ride! Morgana shouldn’t make him.”

    “You didn’t want to ride either,” Gwen answered, “I made you. Do you regret that?”

    “No. Never, but it’s different—”

    “Yes! It is different! You know it is, Merlin. Arthur has a chance! He can still be a champion. You know that. Help him!”

  “I don’t know how to help him! I’m so fucked up that I can’t even bring myself to leave the barn on my bad days! I’m destroying my body just to get a few hours of riding in, to feel like I have possibility again!”

    They’ve had this fight so many times. Merlin lost count too long ago for it to matter, but it still stung every time.    

  Gwen ran a hand through her hair, “Merlin,” she said quietly. “Merlin you aren’t going to compete again. Ever. You know that. We’ve been over it, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have possibility! You’re a fantastic rider! A good teacher. Your accident destroyed your dreams and that’s horrible. It’s bollocks and it’s unfair but it’s what happened. I’m not telling you to move on, I don’t expect you to. What I expect is for you to look at Arthur and think about if you were him! If you still had that chance, wouldn’t you want someone to help you realize that?”

    Merlin pushed past her, “I’ll be in the car,” he snapped. He slammed the tack room door behind him.

   

~~~

  The ride home was almost deathly quiet. He could hear Gwen’s harsh breaths, and knew that meant she was mad at him. Really mad. Not just grumpy or amusingly frustrated. She didn’t say anything to him at all when they got back to the flat, just stormed up the hall and slammed her door shut. He’d been horrible to her, and he knew it, but Gwen had never pried so deeply into that part of Merlin’s conscious. If he didn’t want to leave the flat and help Arthur then that was his prerogative! Wasn’t it?

  Still, that night he curled up in bed and stared at the shadows the window threw onto the wall, and he thought about what Gwen had said. Potential. Possibility. People used to say that about him, but they didn’t any more. His back ached and his leg throbbed, and Merlin knew that pain would be a part of his life from now on, because he’d ruined his body.

  But he hadn’t ruined his body. An accident had. A freak accident that nobody understood. One of those one-in-a-million chances that had to happen to somebody. It had happened to him. If it hadn’t though, or if he could have recovered, he would have wanted someone to smack him and say “Look what you still have!”

  Merlin rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes. He still had Fish, at least. Arthur’s horse was dead. Arthur though, he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t broken.

    If Merlin could help him, he realized that he would. That he wanted to know that someone could come out of this mess whole.

    (The next morning he made Gwen breakfast, and they laughed the whole way to the barn).

~~~

Morgana gave him a week of quiet before she finally turned on him.

“No,” he said when she opened her mouth. Her intentions were written all over her face, clear and bright and full of importance. She was, typically, even dressed for the occasion. Her ‘don’t fuck with me’ heels made him have to tilt his head up, and as he was sitting on the couch the angle was a bit off. These were the boots--she probably considered them more appropriate for a barn. Arthur considered them the bane of his existence.

“Arthur,” she said patiently, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _How_ exactly am _I_ being ridiculous?”

“You’re a rider! You used to tell people that before you told them your name.”

“I remember. Father was quick to change that habit.”

Morgana sobered and dropped down on the couch next to him. “Have you spoken with him, then?”

“This week? Yes.”

Morgana looked away, her gaze straying toward the window of their living room. The whole room was huge, and sort of bare, but Arthur loved the window—or more importantly, he loved the expansive view. “I’ll be the first to say that I disagree with Uther’s practices,” Mogana said carefully.

“Disagree?” Arthur snorted, “You lead a protest group.”

“His team is—no, look, Arthur that’s _really_ beside the point. Uther is a great coach. He might be able to help you.”

“I don’t want Uther to help me, Morgana. I don’t want to ride.”

“But why not?”

“Because I killed my horse!”

Next to him, Morgana went completely still. Arthur set his jaw and pushed up off the couch. Now that it was out in the open, there was no reason to pretend that everyone hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d said it. “You know it’s true, Morgana,” Arthur added, “The accident. Excalibur doesn’t—didn’t—make mistakes like that. He was too good. It had to be something I did,” he didn’t look away from the wall while he spoke, just squared his shoulders.

“You can’t blame yourself—”

“Everyone does,” Arthur cut in. “Absolutely everyone.”

“The accident was strange, you couldn’t possibly have prepared for—”

“It was my job to be prepared. It doesn’t matter what happened, what matters is what didn’t happen. I failed, Morgana. I failed to react. I killed my horse and I’m not going to ride again, I’m not going to be responsible for that. Please,” his voice dropped, “Please respect my wishes.”

“No,” Morgana said, standing up. She walked toward the door. “I won’t, because you’re wrong, Arthur. You’re being a git, and I don’t have time to listen to this. The address for Camelot is on the fridge.”

She slammed the door on her way out, and Arthur dropped back down onto the couch. The idea of getting back on a horse wasn’t just—not getting back on a horse wasn’t about being stubborn. It wasn’t about pride, or about being lazy. The thought of it made Arthur’s palms sweat, it made his skin clammy, and made him want to get under the covers and never get back out again.

He didn’t remember the accident. Not a second of it. All he remembered was the endless blue of the sky, the way his body felt as it twisted through the air, and then there was silence. He hadn’t even heard Arcturus’s breathing stop (of course, it hadn’t stopped. Not then, not in the ring. It happened in some barn, while Arcturus was surrounded by strangers, in pain, and Arthur was high on drugs and asleep in a hospital room. Arcturus's breathing hadn’t stopped that day, but Arthur thought--irrationally, perhaps--that he _should have known_ ).

What Morgana didn’t understand, or maybe what she couldn’t understand, was that Arcturus had been a part of Arthur. The concept sounded strange, even in the privacy of his mind, but Arcturus had never been just a horse, never just the mechanism through which he competed. Arcturus had been an extension of Arthur’s self, as real and vital to him as his legs or his arms. He missed the horse so badly that it ached.

   

~~~

“Arthur, get the phone!”

Morgana’s voice rang out through the flat, and Arthur blinked awake. He was curled up on the couch, still, where Morgana had left him. The phone registered then, blaring and shrill, and he stumbled to his feet, grabbed the phone. “This is Arthur,” he said, as he’d been trained to do since he was young enough (and old enough) to be trusted with answering the phone.

“Arthur! Hi! It’s Vivian. How are you?”

He thought about hanging up, but that would have been rude. “Viv,” he answered, “Hey, I’m all right—” He wanted to ask how she’d gotten the number, it was on the tip of his tongue, “--How have you been?”

“Excellent,” she laughed in his ear, “I haven’t heard from you in ages, I thought I’d call. Sorry it’s so loud, I’m on the street and it’s quite busy.”

“Is someone selling something and you don’t want to talk to them?”

“Yes! These bloody—I don’t even know what it is, something about adoption? Or maybe mobile plans, or missile plans, who knows. They won’t let me alone, so I’ll look busy and catch up with an old friend.”

“Sophia’s not with you, then.”

“What? No. She’s—” Vivian hesitated, he could hear the hiccup of her breath in the phone, “She’s over in America, right now. Buying a horse.”

“America? Why’s she there?”

“Something about a bloodline, you know, she’s picky about those things. Never has got a horse quite good enough to beat you though, you and your Great Bear. I think she only dated you for your horse.”

Arthur froze, and he waited for the stumbled apology, the _I forgot it was so sensitive._ He waited for Vivian to panic and take her words back, or hang the phone up. “Anyway,” she said instead, “I’ve got this new girlfriend, I think you’d really like her. She’s a good rider, although she’s never had the money to show before. I think she’s trying for a sponsor, and I’m hoping to convince your father to take her on. Come out with us, sometime, would you? I haven’t seen your face in the newspaper in such a long time, and it seems to me to be a crime to deny the people your lovely visage.”

“I don’t know, Viv.”

“Morgana says you haven’t left your apartment much. You’re hurting, and I understand. You lost your horse, Arthur, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose riding, too.”

“Why does everyone want to have this conversation with me?” he recognized the petulance in his voice, and winced. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so much like a child.”

“Don’t fuss, Arthur. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you’re hardly going to scare _me_ off. Yes, fine, you don’t want to talk about it. But, Arthur, have you been to the grave site? It’s really beautiful. Right on your favorite spot in that one trail out in the country. By the lake, you know the one. Did you pick it?”

“No,” Arthur said around the lump in his throat, “My father did. I haven’t been.”

“Come out with us sometime,” Vivian insisted in his ear, “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine too, but then come with me to visit Arcturus. You should see it, Arthur.”

“I don’t think I can see it,” Arthur said, sitting down with his back pressed against the wall. “I know what I sound like. I know it’s pathetic—but I just—I can’t—”

“I know, Arthur,” Vivian said. “Look, think on it. You’re seeing me though. Freya—that’s her name—she’s wonderful, and I want you to meet her. You really will like her.”

“It’s good to talk to you, Vivian.”

“You too, Arthur. I’ll bow out. But hey, you need to get on a horse. You know that old adage about getting back on? It’s true. You’re not going to feel better until you get on a horse.”

“Ok,” he said.

“You’ll do it?”

“I don’t know. Baby steps, maybe.”

“Well, there’s a barn that Freya knows—”

“No, don’t worry, Morgana found me a place. Give Sophia my—uh—good wishes.”

“Of course, darling,” Vivian laughed. “I’ll talk to you later. Be good! By the way, keep your heels down and stick your tits out.”

Arthur set down the phone. He couldn’t help but smile.

~~~

One of those things about barns everywhere that always rang the same in Arthur’s ears was the sound his tires made when they rolled up to the building. The universal sound of crunching gravel that always made him want to hurry to get out of the car, to go and ride, to do something. He heard that noise when he pulled up to Camelot, this time without Morgana (and in his own car), but it just made him nervous. He wanted to turn around and go back to London. He’d had the whole drive over to talk himself out of going through with this.

But he could see Merlin, and the off-beat but steady swing of his walk as he came out of the barn. He was silhouetted against the blue of the stable, and Arthur couldn’t really see his face, but he knew it was Merlin all the same. The gait was a dead giveaway, but if not that then the slightly crooked line of his shoulders would do the trick. If nothing else worked, the fluff of hair on top of his head that made it look like he’d just gotten out of bed probably would have convinced Arthur of who it was.

He ran his hand up his side, over the scar on his torso, before he pushed the door open. He was wearing trainers, but his boots were in a pile in the back of the car, right next to his helmet. He left both of those where they were. Arthur didn’t even know if he wanted to ride yet, let alone what he was doing at this barn.

“Hey,” Merlin said, stopping several feet from Arthur. It gave the impression that he was hiding, ready to run back into the barn at the slightest provocation.

“Hi,” Arthur agreed, closing the distance between them. He held out his hand for Merlin to shake. “I want to apologize for my behavior last week, it was inappropriate. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me like this.”

Merlin shrugged, “Therapeutic riding center,” he said, “Kind of my job.”

“Right,” Arthur shifted, “You will of course be compensated for—”

“Right,” Merlin echoed, cutting Arthur off. “Look, I know you’re nervous about this. Or uncomfortable. I was the same, and it’s fine to feel like that. That’s what they don’t tell you. You groomed Gwaine last week, yeah? Let’s start there.”

It was a lesson plan and an offer disguised as an order, but Arthur went along with it. The barn looked the same as it had the week before. Still clean and tidy, with that over-everything fine grit of barn dust that made people who didn’t know horses wrinkle their noses. He breathed it in and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Merlin in front of him guide him to wherever they were going.

Where they were going was a tack room, and it was huge. Everything was organized. Arthur approved—he himself had driven Morgana, his father, and any number of writing instructors to the brink of madness with his careful organization of the tack rooms on the Pendragon estate. Arthur grabbed the grooming bucket that had ‘Gwaine’ scrawled across it in loopy, childish letters. He raised an eyebrow at Merlin.

“We have the kids design new buckets every year during summer camp,” Merlin said. “It’s part of how we get them comfortable with ‘their’ horses. We assign each kid a horse for the whole two weeks; it helps them to feel like they’re really part of the whole thing.”  
Arthur nodded his head blankly, looking inside the grooming bucket. On the back of each brush was an index card. The same loopy handwriting offered grooming instructions—how to use the curry comb, the hard and soft brushes, the hoof pick. Everything was carefully ordered in a sequential number. Arthur couldn’t help the tight lipped smile. He had learned all of this in much the same way.

“I already groomed Fish,” Merlin said, “But he won’t mind a little extra attention.”

He grabbed a bucket that wasn’t decorated at all, just plain and black, covered in scratches and dents that told of travel. Arthur let Merlin out first so that he could lead the way. He used the opportunity to sweep his eyes over the tack room. In the corner, well out of the way of grabbing childish hands and accidental spills sat a set of tack—three saddles, two bridles, and everything polished to perfection. Arthur knew what that kind of dedication was. In a barn full of dusty lesson saddles, Merlin’s old show gear was painfully obvious. What was strangest to Arthur was the pristine condition the tack was in. Merlin clearly wasn’t showing—if Merlin Emrys had so much as walked past a horse show, Arthur would know. Still, it looked cared for and loved, even though it had been nearly two years since Merlin had hit the ground and his career had come to a standstill.

“Are you coming?” Merlin called. Embarrassed to have been caught staring again, Arthur let himself quickly out of the tack room and shut the door behind him.

~~~

“So you haven’t been around horses at all?” Merlin was asking as they walked on an old trail.

Arthur looked up, he’d been lost in thought, comforted by the warmth of Gwaine at his shoulder, and the huff of the horse’s warm breath against wrist. “Not since the accident,” Arthur said softly, “Morgana tricked me into it last time,” he was quiet. “My friend pointed it out to me yesterday, but I haven’t even been to Bear’s grave.”

“Bear?”

“Arcturus. The show name is a mouthful, and it’s the name of the brightest star in a constellation near Ursa Major, which means the great bear. It’s stupid,” Arthur said softly, “The star is in a different constellation, but I didn’t want my horse’s nickname to be Cow,” he paused, “Morgana used to call him Moocow, she was horrid.”

Merlin laughed and rubbed his hand over The Fisher King’s neck. “Tell me about it. I named my horse ‘The Fisher King’ and now we all call him Fish. Poor guy.”

Arthur grinned, “I think Bear came about because I had such a hard time saying ‘Arcturus’ without laughing. The name wasn’t my idea at all, it was Morgana’s. Something about King Arthur and latin--I don’t know, it didn’t make sense to me to name my horse after that, but it stuck. Bear suits him, though--suited him, I mean.”

Merlin didn’t say anything about Arthur’s slip; he just reached over and squeezed his shoulder. His smile was warm and a little tired around the edges. “Gwaine’s no purebread champion, that’s for sure, and he’ll eat all the hay and grain in the barn until he gets himself sick, but he’s a steady mount—a good horse, and he loves people and having fun.”

Arthur glanced at the palomino, who nipped mischievously at the sleeve of his jacket. “He seems like a trouble maker.”

“He means well,” Merlin said.

“Do you ride him, much?” Arthur asked curiously, “Or any of the other horses?”

Merlin nodded, “I do. It took me a little while to get used to the idea, but I can’t take Fish out for a lot of the lesson groups or trail rides. He’s fragile, still. We both are. We have to be careful, don’t we boy?” he clucked affectionately at his horse, “But I’m more reckless with me than with him. I like Gwaine for the kids because he’s so good. I take out anyone who’s free, really. If Gwen’s not riding, I take out her mare.”

“The dappled grey she was riding when we passed the ring?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Kingdom’s Smithy, but we call her Smith.”

“Smithy?”

“Like a black smith. We have a bit of a middle ages theme around here, I guess.”

“The stable _is_ called Camelot.”

“And look at us, Arthur and Merlin.”

They both laughed, and Arthur ran his fingers over Gwaine’s back. “You know, I don’t even know what I’d do if I started showing again. I haven’t got a horse,” he was quiet. “I don’t know if I want another horse.”

“No one expects you to start showing tomorrow, Arthur, and honestly, no one should blame you if you never show again, but you should ride.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Arthur said softly. “I’m just not so sure I agree.”

“Why not?”

“Because I killed my horse.”

Merlin was quiet next to him. “Let’s stop over here and sit down,” Merlin said after a while. They’d reached a clearing, and a little creek moved through. There was a spot to secure the horses, and Arthur followed Merlin’s lead and secured Gwaine next to Fish. “I never told anyone about the accident,” Merlin started once they’d settled down, “It wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. There were loads of people who wanted to hear it, but I kind of felt like it was mine, you know? My fault. No one else seemed to blame me, and I didn’t want to tell them my perspective, because I thought they’d call me guilty. By the time I was ready to tell it, people didn’t want to listen anymore.”

“You didn’t tell Gwen?”

“No,” Merlin said. “My accident, was—-well, you read the papers. It was a freak thing—the kind of thing that doesn’t _happen_ to people. . .”

~~~

The day was bright and crisp and clear. Merlin woke up with his legs shaking. The day before had been so perfect it was almost as thought it was out of a dream. Still, even though the morning was absolutely still and quiet, he could feel the buzz of excitement that permeated the air. Everyone was alive, everyone was beautiful--Merlin waxed poetic about it in his head as he flipped through the news reports on his phone. His name was in nearly all of them, a description of a boy and his horse, taking the showing world by storm--so communicative that it almost seemed like they were actually talking to each other. Everyone had been so impressed by yesterday’s performance. Merlin had never been so proud of his horse before, and he knew that show jumping today would be just as amazing.

After he’d brushed his teeth and run wet hands through his hair to quiet the excited puffs that the pillow had created, he walked over to the closet. The door was open, displaying to anyone who walked in the room the careful elegance of Merlin’s show clothes. They had been pressed and repressed, every wrinkle scared away first by Merlin, and then Hunith (“You call that _pressed_ , young man?” she’d exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air at the hopelessness of her boy), and now they looked perfect. On the floor below them, his boots were practically glowing from the careful polishing the night before. He’d wanted to sleep at the barn, but his trainer had warned against it with a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder and the advice that he’d do better to get a good nights sleep. (Merlin had barely slept a second of the night before).

It felt like it took forever, but finally his clothing, boots, and helmet had been carefully packed away for transport to the barn. When he stepped outside the door, the sound of the latch clicking shut behind him echoed in the silent hallway. The dawn had barely cracked the sky, and anyone who wasn’t competing was still sound asleep behind the faceless wooden doors. Merlin didn’t see any of his competition, either, but he couldn’t be certain they hadn’t already left.

Outside the hotel, a cab was waiting for him. “Morning to ya,” the cabbie said, smiling as Merlin slid in. “What’s your number in the show today? We want to know which of our riders is gonna win this thing.” Merlin laughed and told him, then settled back for the ride. It was a blur of shapes and trees and houses and buildings, but Merlin didn’t see a single thing. He only saw what was behind his eyelids, the image of Fish and him, taking each jump with precision and style. Taking the trophy. Showing the world how much they could do.

They pulled up in front of the entrance, the tiles crunching on the gravel. The barn wasn’t quiet--it was loud and alive. The sun was just barely painting the roof in shades of light, and already Merlin could hear calls and hollers, the sounds of humans and horses. He thanked the cabbie and paid his fare, and got wished good luck.

He flashed his badge at the security guard at the door and then he was in front of Fish’s stall. “Hey,” he said to his horse. “Hi,” he added, leaning his head against Fish’s dark muzzle. It was still quiet by this stall, and there were no camera flashes, or anything to distract Merlin from his horse. They were the youngest horse and rider there, and the pair of them caught more than their fair share of attention from press and competition alike. Merlin relished this moment of just the two of them. He kissed Fish’s dark muzzle, “Today is our day,” he whispered. “Good morning.”

The hours crept by too slowly and too quickly. Merlin was caught in between moments of preparation--polishing his boots again and fixing, and then refixing, Fish’s mane--and moments of complete and utter stillness while he waited for his chance to warm up. Hunith brought him a coffee and a kiss. She ruffled his hair, and Merlin spent longer than he needed to making it lay flat again. Will called, sorry that he couldn’t be there, but he was competing himself--off in America, being ridiculous, and Merlin couldn’t blame him. They talked for a while despite the time difference, eating away at time and the nerves that they both struggled with.

Finally, _finally_ they were presentable. They were ready. His boots were clean. There was no hay in Merlin’s hair. There was the sound of a roar, as though he would be swallowed (and deafened) by the first burst of sound from the crowd, but the second Fish’s foot touched dirt, everything went silent.

The noise of the crowd disappeared. Merlin was transported to a world where there was only himself and his horse. Just the two of them, breathing in unison, existing as one thing. Fish was warm and solid beneath Merlin, prancing and eager and so well behaved. Merlin allowed himself the smallest smile as they approached the first jump.

It was easy, as Merlin knew it would be, and he approached the jump without nerves. Fish excelled at ramped oxers, although they were nothing particularly challenging, and really, Fish excelled at everything. It was a good first jump on a course like this, difficult enough to keep them focused, but the jump itself--with the back pole set higher than the front pole--would not be particularly hard for the pair. In fact, it wasn’t hard at all. It was beautiful. Merlin could feel Fish take it, and as he rose in his seat, he felt (not for the first time, never for the first time) as though they were flying.

The second jump, a roll top, was harder. Again, Fish’s jump was perfect. Merlin’s eyes never strayed from the jump ahead, but he could imagine what they looked like, soaring over the solid expanse of wood. He knew without wondering that they looked amazing together, all dark hair between them, but this jump felt--it felt like winning. He didn’t have to wonder about the time, Merlin could feel the seconds, like he felt so much about riding, sliding by without concern. They were making excellent time, he didn’t need to know the numbers to know they were the best so far. He was doing well. They were both doing well.

Merlin had been nervous about the third jump going into the competition. When they had first started out, Fish and Merlin had both had a strange and unfounded fear for Liverpools. Fish, because the idea of the water below him made him antsy, and Merlin because it had been before he’d learned to trust his horse going over an oxer. When combined--the pool below the oxer--they had struggled for months to overcome their slightly irrational problem. Today though, today Merlin let the last ounces of fear he held so close to his chest go. He trusted his horse. “We’ve got this,” he whispered, his lips not even moving. Fish’s ears twitched back at him, and Merlin pressed his fingers against Fish’s neck. “I trust you,” he said.

He felt it the moment Fish’s feet took off from the ground, and Merlin locked his eyes straight ahead.

They landed.

And Merlin heard the crowd roar.

For months after that third jump, critics and analysts, press and friends and family would wonder what went wrong. Those first three jumps had been the best jumps of Merlin and Fish’s career. They had been elegant--flawless--the kind of jumps you bragged about. The question would hang over Merlin’s head as he watched and re-watched the tape, as news stations played the footage, the headlines screaming: What Went Wrong?

As Merlin and Fish approached the fourth jump, an unintimidating, almost friendly jump shaped like a treasure chest, Merlin felt strange. Something was wrong. Something was _off_. It was a feeling, a sensation deep in his chest, like he was being invaded, like something was wrong about the air--about the world--about the sky. The feeling lasted only a second before Merlin and Fish lifted off, soaring over the jump in perfect unison.

People who blinked missed it.

They were in the air; they were _flying_.

And then they were on the ground.

It was like someone had hit the fast forward button, and the tape had skipped. Horse and rider lay in the dirt with several feet between them. For an instant, the world was frozen. Then Fish’s sides heaved and he rose slowly, painstakingly, to his feet. Everyone watched the big black stallion as he stood there, breathing heavily and clearly in pain. A cheer went up; the crowd was glad to see the horse standing. Almost as quickly as the cheer had risen--it died. It shattered.

Merlin did not get up.

~~~

The hospital was white and it echoed when Merlin woke up screaming.

~~~

Three weeks passed, and Merlin went home to an empty flat and a nurse that came and visited him every four hours for therapy and to make sure he wasn’t in an immobile heap on the floor. She danced around the issues, saying things like “take your time” and “everything will be fixed when it’s ready to be fixed, Merlin” and what Merlin understood beneath her cheery smile was “you may never ride again.”

The days passed by, and Merlin counted them by prescription refills and the numbers of pills he took in order to sleep the whole night through. Oddly enough, he thought often about his cabbie. He wondered how much money the man had lost betting on the rider who fell apart.

The pills didn’t help much. He still woke up screaming. He saw one doctor, then two, then three, and the fourth one had cold hands and a tired old-man’s smile, but he said “You will ride again, Merlin” with a kind lilt in his voice. Merlin had expected to feel relief. Instead, he felt sick.

When the accident was eight weeks behind him, Merlin moved to London.

He sold his flat in Ireland and tried to sell his horse. He was shut down by first his mother, and then any buyer he tried to find after he’d told her his plans. He didn’t know why they wanted him to keep Fish, so he packed his stuff up and put water between them. He donated all of his riding clothes, and wanted to donate his tack, but he couldn’t go back to the barn, and no one would do it for him. Just thinking about it made his hands shake, and he swallowed down the taste of dirt and blood.

Merlin’s accident was behind him, except for when it wasn’t.

It was reincarnated in medical bills and continued visits to the doctor. Now the nurses said things like “lucky” and “through the worst of it” they said that he wouldn’t be able to compete again, but he could _ride _the _lucky boy___. They said “We thought you’d be paralyzed” and the more optimistic ones admitted they thought he would die. Merlin started wishing that he had.

The Fisher King and Merlin, according to the papers, would never compete again. Horse and Rider hadn’t even been in each other’s company since the accident, if rumors were to be believed (they were right). The press took to the story with an appetite for the gory details. The thrill of it spoke to the thousands, although many of them knew nothing at all about horses or Merlin. It was the mystery of it that haunted him and delighted the press. No one could figure out what had gone wrong.

The tapes showed a perfect jump, and perfect form. Some people pointed to the crowd, wondering if anyone there had done something. All anyone could find, however, was a perfect day, and a little boy in the background with golden brown eyes and his hands raised in delight. Some members of the press pointed out a strange shimmer in the air, but mostly everyone put it down to lens flares or faulty cameras, a too bright sun. Strange shimmers and little boys with raised up hands didn’t cause accidents. The focus shifted back to Merlin and The Fisher King, and the conversations continued.The mystery stayed stagnant, unsolvable, but it didn’t stop people from talking about it.

So Merlin lived in London, and he didn’t pick up the phone. He lived off old prize money and licked his wounds. The weeks melted away. November became December and people (press and friends and teammates alike) stopped calling. Will never stopped, but Merlin refused to see him. He had his groceries delivered and let his legs ache. He woke up with imaginary sand grinding in his teeth.

On December 3, Will picked his lock. He sat on Merlin’s floor and stared at him until Merlin agreed to get up off the couch. For the first time since the accident, Merlin cried. It was ugly: he screamed and lashed out, sobbed and choked for air. Will never once let him go. When December 3 gave up on itself, and the clock showed the earliest hours of December 4, Will kissed Merlin and said, “I know just the girl for you,” and Merlin laughed through a sob and rolled his eyes. “Really,” Will insisted. “She’s nice and so not into me, but she’ll be good for you.”

“I don’t know,” Merlin said, and it felt like he hadn’t used his voice in years.

“Really?” Will asked, “Well, she’s moving in tomorrow. Or, Hey! I guess actually today!”

Merlin said, “I’m going to need another kiss,” and lost himself in Will like he used to when he was small.

~~~

Will’s “nice girl” was a force of nature named Guinevere. She made Merlin eat three meals a day, and with infinite patience became his best friend. It took her only ten days to worm her way underneath his skin, and she let him cling to her.

“Merlin,” she said on morning eleven over tea and toast, “I’d like you to come to Camelot with me.”

“No,” he said.

“Sorry, did that sound like a question?”

Camelot was a therapeutic barn that Gwen worked at, but Merlin knew of it because his godfather, Gaius was the owner.

Merlin ended up there for Christmas Eve, and they ate food until they could barely breathe. On Christmas morning, Gwen dragged him kicking and screaming out to the barn. He smelt the hay, and after that it was all over. He got on a horse again (Fish) for the first time since his accident. Mostly because Gwen wouldn’t stop badgering him.

“Happy Christmas,” he said to Fish, breathing for what felt like the first time in ages.

~~~

“I threw up right after that,” Merlin said, turning to look at Arthur with a small smile. “It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. I wanted it to be like a movie, you know? Where I got on my horse and everything was perfect right away. But it wasn’t. I threw up every time I rode him for the first two months after Christmas. I was a wreck. I couldn’t handle it, the guilt, the fear--it was crippling. But Gwen was there, and Gaius, and mum, and Will. I push myself too hard sometimes--you saw that the other day, but it’s not all bad.”

Merlin hadn’t talked for that long in--well, he actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked for so long. Arthur was looking at him in silence, pulling at blades of grass.

“My accident was the same,” Arthur said finally, after too many moments of silence. “Exactly like that. The fourth jump. The mystery. Everything.”

Merlin nodded, “I know,” he said quietly. “I followed it in the papers,” he smiled wryly. “Started getting phone calls again, actually. I was in New York when I heard about it--it hasn’t been long. You can take your time, but--” Merlin paused and tipped his head back, “I was miserable when I wasn’t riding. Sometimes I’m still miserable, and my body will always be a mess, but I’m less miserable now that I’m doing this again. I think that’s important for me, and it might not be for you, maybe you don’t need to ride--I can’t speak for everyone who has ever had an accident. But I look at you, Arthur, and you have so much--you could still do so much.” Merlin shrugged and half smiled.

Arthur stared ahead at the water, and Merlin jumped when a warm huff of breath shifted his hair. He turned around, smiling at Fish. “You clever boy,” he said softly, stroking his horse’s muzzle. “My clever boy. Did you get yourself free?”

Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look. He basked in the sunlight and in the feeling of his horse breathing on his ear.

Arthur jumped up abruptly, and even that looked smooth and effortless to Merlin, who did nothing abruptly anymore (or rather, did everything abruptly, but never smoothly). “I want to go,” Arthur said shortly.

He was leading Gwaine back down the path before Merlin had even gotten all the way to his feet. “Arthur!” Merlin called, frowning.

Arthur turned around, and the expression on his face said the same thing that Arthur had been saying, out loud and in his mind, ever since Merlin met him. Ever since the day he’d walked through the doors of Camelot, which was--god, Merlin winced, barely any time ago at all (but it felt like ages). Arthur looked at him, dark and petulant and something else, something that Merlin couldn’t find words for, but that resonated in a part of Merlin that felt ancient and new all at once. _My horse is dead_ , Arthur’s face said.

And Merlin found that he couldn’t move. He imagined himself moving forward, catching Arthur’s shoulder and talking him down, but his body held still, and Merlin stared at Arthur until he couldn’t see him anymore, and the forest seemed to swallow them both alive.

~~~

His hands were shaking, and that was more embarrassing than Arthur cared to admit. He’d just thrown the equivalent of a temper tantrum: storming off into the trees with biting words that he’d fully intended to claw at Merlin’s scars. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Merlin’s scars. They bothered Arthur, because they were so obvious, and they’d _healed_. Arthur and his scars, though. They just sat and waited, brooding and broken, lonely and empty--

But no, that wasn’t quite right either. Arthur sighed and dropped his forehead against Gwaine’s stall. Merlin’s scars were visible, sure, but they weren’t healed--not really. And maybe _that_ was the thing, then, that Merlin’s scars were different. Arthur had always prided himself on his control of his body, the comfort of his physique. The way he could move, control, and exist as something _more_ than the average person. Arthur knew his body, Arthur could control his body, and maybe, he realized, maybe Merlin’s wounds seemed healed because if they were Arthur’s--if it were Arthur’s broken body, and not his broken mind--maybe he would be able to overcome that.

The thought that came next was bitter and vindictive. It was _petty_ , but Arthur wondered if Merlin was maybe just a little too weak. He thought of the slump to Merlin’s shoulders, the awkward swing to his walk to compensate for injuries buried under his skin, and he thought that Arthur Pendragon would be better than that. If it was just physical, if it was just his back, then maybe.

Arthur slumped his shoulders and felt the wood grain dig against his forehead. There would be marks, an imprint that would prove he had been here, in this stall, for at least a few moments. Arthur sighed and closed his eyes against the sunlight that made the hay tangled in his boots glow like spun gold.

_Blue sky, a crash_ \--Arthur startled automatically, opening his eyes against remembering his accident. He felt different than he did after the nightmares. His heart was beating fast, and there was sweat on his palms, but it was exhilarating, and there wasn’t an overwhelming sense of guilt. Behind him, Gwaine shifted innocuously from foot to foot, and Arthur heard the lithe palomino huff out a breath. He closed his eyes again.

_Blue sky, a crash--the clang of steel on steel. Blue sk--eyes, blue eyes, and smile that made them crinkle at the edges. The blur of a laugh, and hay like spun gold. Blue eyes--blue sky, lying on his back and blinking up against the sunlight, lying in hay like spun gold, a thigh just barely touching his--then sitting up, a warm breath ghosting against the back of his neck--_

“Oh my _god_ ,” Arthur yelped, his eyes shooting open as he stumbled forward. “Did you just _drool_ on my _neck_ you monster?” he spun around and eyed Gwaine. The horse bobbed his head slowly, and Arthur grimaced. “You did, didn’t you?” He lifted a hand and wiped the slobber off the back of his neck, and with it wiped away day dreams of something that felt so much lighter than the life he lived now. “Did I give you a proper cool down?” Arthur asked the horse, pressing a hand to Gwaine’s chest to check for heat and sweat. “Maybe just another lap or two around the barn.”

Gwaine bobbed his head again, and it looked enough like a nod that Arthur grabbed a halter and a lead rope and guided the horse back out into the sunlight.

Merlin was nowhere to be seen, thankfully, and Arthur let Gwaine meander, the horse nosing at the grass and Arthur occasionally stopping to stare out over Camelot. It was expansive and glowing, caught in a rare moment of sunshine that seemed to brush over the entire world. There hadn’t been sun like this in too long, brilliant and bright. Almost ancient. Arthur sighed and leaned against Gwaine as they crested one of the smaller hills. It was just big enough to allow him to see the rest of the property.

The barn, farther behind him than he’d thought it would be, looked almost small against a backdrop of trees and grass, and endless tangles of white fences. He squinted, and could just barely make out Morgana sunning herself on a bench. She was stretched out, long and languid, her legs too long and hanging over the edge. She looked like a star, but most of all, she looked at home. Arthur shut his eyes and tried to remember what being at home felt like, because no matter how welcoming the smell of leather and hay was, no matter how familiar the shift of Gwaine’s weight as he tried to nudge Arthur toward a nicer patch of grass, there was something that kept Arthur apart from all of this. _You don’t belong,_ the world seemed to be telling him, and it was true. Arthur didn’t see the point of feeling at home in a world that was empty of his horse.

He opened his eyes again, stumbling as Gwaine stomped his foot impatiently, the jolt of movement throwing Arthur off balance. That was when he saw Merlin, his steps slower than expected, and Fish keeping pace beside him. They were the picture of a matched set: horse and rider. Merlin’s limp was more pronounced from a distance. Arthur could see the jolted rhythm. It was in the way Merlin moved his hips, there was something _wrong_ about it. Arthur gritted his teeth and turned his gaze back to Gwaine.

Here, on top of the hill with Camelot spread below him like a kingdom, Arthur wondered what it would take to get back home. Gwaine tugged on the lead, knocking Arthur out of his thoughts. Arthur swallowed around a lump in his throat and took one step forward, then another. Slowly, as slowly as Merlin, Arthur and Gwaine headed back into the barn.

It was empty when they got there, of Merlin or Gwen or Morgana, the silence was peaceful, calming. And yet, as Arthur settled Gwaine back into his stall, he swore he heard laughter. When he looked around him though, he saw only an old horse hanging its head over the stall door, watching him.

“Insanity was always going to come,” Arthur said, glancing at the name tag under the old horse’s saddle rack as he walked past, “Don’t you agree, Kilgharrah?”

# # #

The next day found Arthur leaning against the door to Gwaine’s stall, stretching and looking out over the general cloudiness of the day. The wood grain was rough beneath his palms, digging in and hurting just enough to remind him that it was there. He smiled; his appreciation for sensory detail had been coming back over the past few days. Since the accident, so much of what he was feeling had been depressing. The crushing weight of guilt had drowned out even the most familiar sensations: the coolness of his sheets, the way the sun feels--anything that was even a little less important than _accidentaccidentaccident_ became peripheral, and then it became nothing at all. But since he’d been coming to Camelot, he’d slowly become more and more aware of the smaller details in life, like Gwaine, right then, chewing on his sleeve.

“You’re a monster,” he said, not for the first time. Gwaine snorted and bobbed his head, and Arthur had never met a horse who could _smirk_ before he’d met Gwaine. “I don’t have any carrots,” Arthur said, but Gwaine leaned over the stall door anyway and nosed at Arthur’s pocket. Arthur shut his eyes and tangled his fingers in Gwaine’s mane.

“I have an apple.”

Arthur turned and saw Merlin. He looked _tired_ , bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that Arthur remembered feeling from the days before he’d started walking again. For an instant, Arthur thought about reaching forward and catching Merlin’s arm. He wanted to lead him to a bench somewhere and have him sit down until some color returned to his cheeks. Instead, he reached out and took the apple Merlin held out in his palm. “Thank you,” he said.

Merlin just nodded and kept walking. He disappeared around the corner, most likely on his way to visit Fish. Arthur watched him go. He’d gotten into the habit of looking at Merlin’s steps, and today Merlin seemed more off balance than ever. Arthur looked back at Gwaine and offered the horse the apple. Gwaine’s lips moved over his palm, and Arthur leaned back against the stall, staring at the horse.

“Why am I even here?” he asked. He didn’t expect an answer, but Gwaine swished his tail and butted his head warmly against Arthur’s chest, which sort of felt like an answer anyway. “Ok,” he said after a second. “Lets go for another walk.”

The day was dark and damp, but it felt good. It was the kind of day you could curl up inside, and Gwaine was warm and alive under the hand Arthur placed on his neck. He’d been planning to head straight out into the trails surrounding Camelot, but he turned, moving down another aisle instead. He ended up in front of Fish’s stall, but he had to peer over the door to find Merlin.

He was, for some strange reason, sitting in the bedding of the stall with his legs tucked up against his chest. The Fisher King was looking less like a champion and more like an old guard dog. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that the big black horse was eating hay, and consequently dropping pieces into Merlin’s dark hair.

“Come on a walk with us,” Arthur said.

Merlin’s eyes flicked up. “Was that a command, my lord?” he asked, with just a little more bite in the words than Arthur had expected. He must have seen something on Arthur’s face, because he slowly got to his feet. Arthur pretended not to notice the way he steadied himself on Fish’s shoulder. “Sorry,” Merlin added, “I’m sore today. It makes me grumpy--or that’s what Gwen says, anyway.”

It took Merlin longer than it probably should have to open the stall door and step out into the aisle. He was still pale. Arthur forced a smile, “Why don’t you ride him?” he asked, motioning to Gwaine. “He doesn’t look like he’s boney. He’d probably be comfortable bareback.” To punctuate his point, Arthur ran his hand over the horse’s back. Gwaine probably would be very comfortable, Arthur thought. He really was an attractive horse.

“Do I look that awful?” Merlin asked, glancing over at Arthur through his hair.

“If I said yes, would that make you cry?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, and was rewarded with a smile. Merlin’s smile was strange--it was a contradiction. At first, it was unbelievably goofy, the kind of smile that made Arthur want to smile back, but at the same time it was beautiful. It was bright, like nothing else Arthur had seen before--except, he had seen a smile like that before. He was sure of it. Arthur blinked and shook his head, but he couldn’t shake the familiarity of Merlin. There was no other reason for the way he reacted to Merlin--Arthur hadn’t been this close with anyone in years. Except maybe Elena, but she’d been part of his life for too long for him to call her a friend. She was more of a constant, and Arthur’s life lacked for those, certainly. But Merlin was familiar, and Merlin came easily to Arthur, and that was--well, it was exhilarating actually, if a little frightening.

“Arthur?” Merlin said, and Arthur blinked.

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Yes,” Merlin smirked at him. “That much was obvious.”

There wasn’t any more color to Merlin’s complexion, not really, but the movement seemed to make him sound--better, Arthur supposed. Maybe sitting around until some color came back to his cheeks wasn’t what was good for him. Arthur rolled his eyes, “Come on _Mer_ lin,” he half sneered, tugging both horse and Merlin out of the barn and into the dubious “light” of the grey morning.

It was the silence that Arthur had missed the most. There was no silence in the world like the one he found around horses. Even the crunch of Merlin’s footsteps next to him as they walked out past the barn and into the fields beyond couldn’t really disrupt the sense of calm--it was soothing, actually, to hear the steady swish-swing of Merlin’s gait. Strange, at first, because the rhythm was off, but soothing all the same. Arthur debated the pros and cons of closing his eyes and letting the horse lead him, but he thought about Gwaine, and what he knew about the handsome palomino, and after a moment, he decided it would be better to leave his eyes open.

“I don’t blame you,” Merlin said finally, “For not wanting to ride. I dunno if you thought I sounded like I was blaming you, but I don’t. Not really. I just know what it feels like to feel like you shouldn’t _get_ to ride. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Had you really not told that to anyone?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, running a hand through his hair. It was a mess. “I mean, I tried. Not very hard, but. Sometimes it’s just like--you just _want_ someone to get where you’re coming from.”

“But I can’t expect you to get where I’m coming from,” Arthur said. “I see your horse every day--”

“Arthur, you haven’t even been to Arcturus’s grave,” Merlin said quietly. “Prove that you want to get better. That’s what Gwen told me to do--she told me to _prove_ it. Can you prove it? Are you brave enough?”

Merlin was alive. Arthur didn’t know why that surprised him so much.

“Hold him,” he said out loud.

He moved like he had cement blocks for feet, and the pounding in his ears drowned out whatever it was that Merlin said. Arthur saw his lips move, but that was a blur too. He moved like he had cement blocks for feet, half expecting every step to send him plummeting into the earth. Instead, his steps took him closer and closer to Gwaine and Merlin, until he was looking at them both. His hands weren’t shaking, but he thought they should be.

The movement was as fluid as it was familiar. Arthur stepped onto a stump he didn’t remember being there before, and he swung his leg over Gwaine’s back. As slowly as it had happened, it was over.

Arthur was sitting on the back of a horse.

For a moment he thought he might do something horrible, like faint or throw up. Instead, his hands and traitorous body, still moving of its own accord, shifted. He’d been right, earlier.Gwaine was comfortable. His fingers curled in the strands of Gwaine’s mane, and Arthur took the lead rope that Merlin offered him. He shifted his weight, and then Gwaine moved forward. Arthur felt suspended in time, and then he felt like it rushed to catch up with him. He was walking, then trotting, and cantering. The paths around Camelot were clear except for staged obstacles, and Arthur was cantering, he was _riding_ , and then he was jumping over a fallen log, and Gwaine breathing hard, and someone was whooping and laughing.

It took Arthur a second to realize that _he_ was the one laughing, that those sounds were coming out of his mouth. As quickly as the elation had come up, the dread pooled heavy in Arthur’s stomach. Panic. Pain. Bright blue. A horse screaming--

“Heels down, Arthur!” a voice jolted him out of his own head, and Arthur automatically sat up straighter. “Better, good. Eyes where you’re going, not on your hands!” the commands were sharp and accurate. Arthur’s body responded before his mind did, years of training kicking in. His eyes focused on the next obstacle, a small branch across the path. “Arthur! Are you planning on _walking_ over that jump? I thought you were a champion rider?”

Arthur nudged Gwaine forward, guiding the horse with his legs and his seat and his eyes far more than with his hands. It was just a small thing, practically a ground pole. Arthur took it at Gwaine’s easy trot, breathing in time with the horse. “That’s the ticket,” the voice responded, dragged out and smooth. Arthur slowed Gwaine to a walk and then eased into a halt. He blinked in surprise when he realized that Merlin had been the one instructing him.

Of course it was Merlin. Who else would that voice have belonged to?

Still, the tone had thrown Arthur off. Even when Merlin had been frustrated with him, his voice had been soft. Quiet. Not shy, but almost empty. The voice of a broken thing. Arthur looked at Merlin now, and reminded himself that Merlin was not a broken thing. For all his appearances of being the walking dead, Merlin stood in the center of the clearing like the champion he used to be.

“I’m riding a horse,” Arthur said. “I’m riding a horse.”

“Easy,” Merlin answered, moving forward. “Arthur, hey.”

Arthur looked down at Merlin as Merlin placed a hand on Arthur’s knee. He was on a horse. Riding. On a horse. “I’m on a horse,” Arthur said, and this time his voice and hands were shaking.

It was the sort of thing he should have expected. The sort of thing he would have done if he were Merlin, but it still surprised him. Merlin moved with an easy grace, and one second he was on the ground, his fingers curled around Arthur’s knee like they were the only thing keeping Arthur from falling, and the next he was behind Arthur, and before Arthur knew it, they were moving forward again, Merlin’s knees tucked in behind Arthur’s, his chest sturdy against the sudden slump of Arthur’s back. “Sit up straight.” Arthur could feel Merlin’s breath on his ear, and something in his stomach tightened. “Eyes straight ahead.” This time, the words were whispered, but they were no less powerful. Arthur’s body responded to Merlin’s commands, even though Arthur felt numb and beaten. “Don’t lean on your hands, Arthur, come on, this is basic stuff.”

Something like ego make Arthur snap, “I know how to ride a horse, _Mer_ lin.”

The startled laugh behind him was worth the ache in Arthur’s legs. Or maybe it was the ache in Arthur’s legs that made the startled laugh behind him worth it. When they finally dismounted and began the walk back to Camelot, it was dark out, and Arthur had to suppress the urge to count the stars.

# # #

“You bought a horse for me?”

If he was shrieking, it was only a little, but Merlin wasn’t entirely sure he understood what was going on. Freya was sitting across from him, looking rather proud of herself, with her elbows on the table and her fingers curled around a mug of tea. “Well, not for you, exactly,” Freya said. “And I didn’t buy him, really. He’s my mum’s, or he was. Her mare’s foal.”

“So you stole your mother’s horse for me?”

“I told you! Not for you, just...for you. In the future. You’ll need him!”

“The last thing Camelot needs is a horse that you could have sold,” Merlin said, still incredulous.

“Merlin, it’s not for Camelot either.” Freya shifted, “I’ve been having strange dreams,” she admitted quietly. “Dreams of another life, it feels like. I’ve raised this horse, I grew up with this horse. You need this horse, but you have to make me a promise, Merlin.”

“Freya, I can’t take your horse.”

“It’s not my horse and it’s not your horse. Look, you’re going to think I’m crazy. But I’ve heard you’re working with Arthur Pendragon.”

“That’s not--”

“The whole world knows you’re working with Arthur Pendragon, don’t lie. Not to me. It doesn’t matter, anyway. That’s not the point.” She frowned and ran a hand through her hair, Merlin wondered if the whole world was going crazy. “Have you ever felt too big for your skin, Merlin?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Because I do. I have dreams, and it’s like I belong in a different era--a different world.”

“Freya--”

“Stop interrupting me, Merlin, and answer the question. Do you believe in magic?”

Merlin opened his mouth to answer, and then shut it again, quickly. Did he believe in magic? He hadn’t up until recently. Up until the midnight chats with an old green horse named Kilgharrah. Merlin sighed and looked at Freya, “Maybe I’m learning to,” he said, instead of a real answer. He knew exactly what she was talking about--he had dreams too, of a battlefield and a child with cold, dead eyes.

Freya was looking at him, her eyes dark and impossible to understand. She had always been like that, since the day he’d met her--although back then she’d been angrier. Freya had been Merlin’s first introduction to the world of therapeutic riding, long before he’d ever thought to consider it a career. She’d been tossed out of her house and living on the streets, and when she’d been adopted--they were both fifteen at the time--Merlin had started trying to get her into horses. It’d been a guidance counselor at school who’d suggested therapeutic riding.

Still, though, Merlin only talked to her once every few months. The fact that she’d been at the barn that morning, hunched over in the parking lot, waiting for him, had made him nervous. She looked frail. Years and years of inexplicable illnesses had always kept her pale and still, but that morning, she’d been sitting on a bench outside the barn. Her hands had been shoved deep into her pockets, and she’d curled around herself, hunched, like she was protecting something.

“Merlin,” she’d greeted him as he made his way over to her. “You don’t look well.” He’d laughed and said something about pots and kettles.

Now she was talking about magic, and Merlin wanted to tell her that he felt like a whole new part of him had opened up--like he had a new window in his mind, but it was still just a little too foggy to see through. Maybe that was magic, or maybe something else was. Merlin didn’t know, but he was starting to believe.

“You said you wanted me to promise you something,” Merlin reminded her, settling his own hands around his mug.

“A promise,” Freya said seriously, her eyes boring into his. “A real promise Merlin--this is a big deal, you can’t laugh at it. It’s going to sound mad.”

“Everything you say sounds mad.”

“Merlin. Please.”

“Fine. I promise not to laugh at your promise.”

She rolled her eyes at him, so Merlin allowed himself a smile. “Merlin,” she said, “The horse--his name is Excalibur.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

“His name is Excalibur,” Freya repeated, her voice forceful, “And only--Merlin, listen to me-- _only_ Arthur should ride this horse.”

Merlin dropped his mug. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s just a feeling--but, I think it’s important. Please, just think about it.”

After a few seconds, Merlin nodded. “So where is this horse?” he asked finally, “This stolen horse named Excalibur--Freya, are you having a laugh? Merlin, Arthur, _Excalibur?_ ”

“I’ve made him comfortable in the empty stall next to Kilgarah’s. Anyway. I should leave you to meet him,” she smiled. “Merlin, trust yourself, I know things feel out of sorts, but everything will make sense.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s just a feeling.” She kissed Merlin’s cheek on her way out the door. Merlin was left alone in the tack room with two cooling mugs of tea and the unfortunate luck to be alone in the barn with the talking horse.

“Fantastic,” he sighed.

~~~

If he was nothing else at all, Excalibur was a beautiful horse. A holstein, by the looks of him, big and stately and an amazing silver grey. Merlin held a hand out, and the horse pushed against it, nickering a greeting. “Hey boy,” Merlin said softly, rubbing Excalibur’s muzzle. “Well you are a beauty, aren’t you?”

“They were bred in the 14th century and used as war horses.”

“Hello, Kilgharrah,” Merlin answered.

“Hello, young warlock,” a horse couldn’t smile, not really, but Merlin could hear a smile in Kilgarahh’s voice. “A new addition to our kingdom,” the horse added, tossing his head in the direction of Excalibur.

Merlin sighed and stepped away from the new horse, turning instead to face Kilgharrah, the big green horse who had started talking. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “I’m not going mad, am I?” he asked, pulling a carrot out of his pocket and holding it out on a flat palm. Kilgharrah reached out and--”Ow!” Merlin yelped, “You _bit me!_ ”

Kilgharrah snorted, “I am old,” he answered loftily, “I am not as coordinated as I once was.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he answered. “So, giant talking horse--”

“I believe the children call me the great dragon.”

“Yes, right. Great Dragon--of course. So, Great Dragon, what do you know about this horse?”

“The warning that Freya gave you was true, Merlin,” Kilgharrah answered. “This horse is destined for greatness alongside Arthur. You must not let anyone else ride him--it will have disastrous consequences for us all.”

“I appreciate your--uh--wisdom, but this is hardly life or death. We’re horse riders--messed up horse riders, and you’re a _talking horse_. You can’t possibly expect me to be taking this all seriously.”

“I suppose not, young warlock,” Kilgharrah said. “But haven’t you ever felt too big for your skin?”

Freya had said the same thing. Merlin flinched and shrugged. He turned to walk away.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah said, his voice heavy with warning, “Can you think of any reason that your limp should be getting so much worse?”

Merlin stopped suddenly, his back to the horse. “What?”

“I can think of a reason. You will meet him soon, Merlin, and everything will be put to the test. I can only hope that you will be ready. There’s magic in the world, young warlock, and it is waking up. He has been awake for much longer than the magic, much longer than you. It is his gift--and also his curse. He will never forget; in all his incarnations, he has never forgotten. Be prepared, Merlin. This is much older than the sport you compete in.”

~~~

“It’s only been a week, Merlin,” Arthur said, stretching and scratching his stomach. It was earlier than he’d gotten up in a long time, and he stifled a yawn. Apparently, covering your ears and yelling _I can’t hear you_ for several months had ruined his morning person persona. Merlin seemed equally unhappy to be awake, his head tipped to the side as he looked at Arthur. His gaze was hazy, and his hand was, Arthur noted, rubbing at his lower back. “Are you well?” he asked, stepping closer and trying to catch Merlin’s sleepy blue eyes.

“Fine,” Merlin answered quickly, yawning again. He took a step back just as Arthur reached a hand out to steady him, and Arthur flailed miserably for a second, his fingers swiping through air where there had once been a shoulder to grip.

He coughed to cover the awkwardness of the moment and stretched again. The sound of his shoulders popping startled a smile out of him. Merlin though, had gone quiet, and his eyes were wide. “What are you--oh,” Arthur faltered, glancing down. His hand was still hung behind his head, and his hem had ridden up. Displayed there on his stomach for everyone--or maybe just Merlin--to see, was his scar. The parting gift of his dead horse.

Merlin stepped forward again, this time his gaze more intent: Arthur jumped when warm fingers brushed against his skin. Merlin traced the line of the scar, his fingers walking slowly over Arthur’s stomach, curling up around his ribcage. Merlin stopped there, his palm flat and warm against Arthur’s skin. Arthur shivered.

“I--” Merlin started, but Arthur shook his head, blinked fast a few times, and finally met Merlin’s gaze. He stood still, staring at Merlin, and Merlin stared back. Arthur didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t sure there was anything to say at all.

Merlin’s palm was still warm against Arthur’s side. It seemed right, then, to reach around Merlin and rest his own hand against the small of Merlin’s back. For a second, Merlin’s eyes darted around nervously. Arthur went still, waiting. They must have looked ridiculous, standing in the middle of the barn aisle with their hands under each other’s shirts, but Arthur wasn’t inclined to move.

Somewhere behind them, a horse snorted loudly. Merlin darted back as though he had been burned.

“We should get started,” Merlin said, his voice quick and breathy. “I have lessons in a few hours.” Merlin turned, hurrying toward the tack room.

“Right,” Arthur said, his own voice rough. “Right.”

Arthur gave Merlin a moment to himself, heading instead over to Gwaine’s stall. The horse snorted in greeting, throwing his head over the stall door and butting his nose against Arthur’s shoulder. “Hey buddy,” Arthur said quietly. He winced when Gwaine drooled on him. “You are disgusting. You think this is funny, don’t you? Monster.”

Behind him, Merlin laughed. “He’s definitely a troublemaker,” Merlin answered. “But he’s a brave guy, aren’t you?” With practiced ease, Merlin shifted the saddle he was holding to rest on his hip. He reached out with his other hand to thread his fingers through Gwaine’s mane, tugging affectionately. “Atta boy,” Merlin murmured.

Arthur grabbed the saddle, and there was comfortable silence (aside from the sound of Gwaine’s breathing) as the two of them tacked up the horse. Arthur took a shaky breath, laying his palm flat against Gwaine’s neck. He’d been riding for nearly a week, although the rides had been much more timid and much less comfortable than Arthur’s initial ride. Once the euphoria of _I’m on a horse_ had worn off, Arthur had been left with the reality of being _on a horse_ , and all the things that entailed. Today, Merlin thought he was ready to start jumping again.

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice was right behind him, and Arthur jumped--he couldn’t help the grimace that crossed his face. He’d been _jumping_ since  the accident, just not the kind of jumping that happened on a horse. “Sorry,” Merlin laughed, stepping away. “I just wanted to say that you’ve done really well. Really. It’s just a small course. The ring is in the middle of nowhere. There’ll be no one to watch, just you and me.”

Arthur closed his eyes tightly, just for a moment, before he finally nodded his head. Merlin stepped around Gwaine, and then out into the early morning light. It was just barely dawn, and the sun was buried behind clouds. The air was heavy with the promise of heat, but for now it was still cool enough to raise goosebumps on Arthur’s arms, or at least that’s what he told himself--the goosebumps were from the cold, damp air.

Gwaine was familiar at his shoulder, and Arthur followed Merlin out on the paths. He hadn’t been lying, the ring was as close to the middle of nowhere as the pair of them were going to get. It was tucked away between Gaius’s house and the barn, hidden behind the slopes of two small hills. Arthur breathed out nervously when Merlin slowed to a stop. Gwaine stopped beside Arthur, until the three of them were standing there, staring at the ring. “Right,” Arthur echoed himself earlier. He nodded his head forcefully and turned. His movements were jerky as he fumbled with the stirrups. For the second time that day, Merlin reached out and touched him. He was standing right behind Arthur, and Arthur could feel Merlin’s breath on his neck. Slowly, like he was working with a skittish horse, Merlin guided Arthur’s fingers through the motions.

“Do you want a leg up?” he asked, still close enough that Arthur imagined he could hear Merlin’s heartbeat.

“Your back--” Arthur started, instead of saying no.

Merlin moved away, “Mount up, then,” he said, nodding at the horse and crossing his arms. Merlin was, Arthur had begun to realize, a truly formidable person. He was good with his riders, Arthur had known that, but the balance he struck between patience and gruffness was admirable. He knew when Arthur needed a hand, and when Arthur needed to--for lack of a less punny expression--cowboy up.

Arthur looked at Merlin for a moment, and then he looked at the horse. He straightened up and ran a hand through his hair. This should have gotten easier, but it never did. He could feel Merlin’s eyes on his back, though, a firm reminder that Arthur had options, sure, but none of them were better than this one. He lifted his leg and slipped his foot into the stirrup, and it was automatic, the motion of mounting up came as easily to him as it had every other time he’d gotten on a horse in his life. Not everything, then, was Before and After. Not, then, the things that mattered.

The tightness of his stomach and shoulders eased some once he had his stirrups adjusted and was settled in the saddle. The world felt smaller here. When they were young, Morgana had read a series of books called _The Saddle Club_. One of the girls--the most avid rider--had joked that she would find anything beautiful if she was looking at it from the back of a horse. Arthur had always scoffed at that, (“Piles of rubbish?” he’d demanded, “ _Really_ , Morgana”) but now he could see something valid in her logic.

Merlin, for all his walking-corpse appearance, seemed almost to be glowing. His eyes were bright and alive, and for an instant, just a _moment_ , the blue seemed gold. _Hay like spun gold_ , Arthur remembered, _Blue, bright blue_. Just flashes of color. Memories that he couldn’t _really_ remember. He tightened his hands on the reins and blinked, but Merlin’s eyes were just blue. Lovely, yes. Bright, of course. But blue. Not gold.

“You’re stalling, Arthur!” Merlin’s voice was sharp and pointed. “Walk.”

So Arthur nudged Gwaine forward, and they walked. He absorbed the feeling of that silence in this ring, and out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Merlin. Gwaine snorted, tossing his head, and Arthur laughed. “You’re impatient,” he said to the horse.

“And--let’s trot,” Merlin called--no longer from the side of the ring where he’d been before. He’d fallen, almost naturally it seemed, into the center. Arthur held Gwaine back for a moment. At the sound of the command, the horse had pulled for his head, slipping into a trot before Arthur had really asked for it. He made Gwaine wait for a few steps before giving the command himself. “Good, Arthur,” Merlin said. Arthur could feel Merlin’s eyes on him, and he glanced over to look at Merlin. “Eyes straight ahead.” Merlin corrected.

Again, Arthur absorbed the silence, feeling Gwaine beneath him, posting in time to the smooth and steady gait. “ _Mer_ lin,” he drawled, rolling his eyes, “I think we can get a move on.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Merlin called, and Arthur didn’t dare look at him again. “Fine then, let’s see you pick up a canter. Start with the blue and white crossrail.”

Something old and almost foreign in Arthur reared up impatiently. The crossrail that Merlin was talking about was simple--a child’s jump. He frowned at it, shifting in his seat to straighten his approach. “Arthur!” Merlin’s voice rang out loud and unexpected, “ _Focus_ on the jump. That’s sloppy riding!”

Arthur bristled, “It’s a _crossrail_ , Merlin!” he snapped.

“That’s right, Arthur,” Merlin said, “It’s just a crossrail. Why have you gone around it twice now?”

Arthur went still in the saddle. He flushed. “I was trying to get a better approach.”

“You were avoiding the jump. You want to be ready to ride with the best of them again?  Arthur, this is your _choice_ , but you have to _make_ it.”

Arthur frowned, “I really wasn’t avoiding it,” he answered.

Merlin didn’t answer.

Arthur made one more loop around the ring before he set his eyes over the jump. He allowed himself only a second to look at it before he focused on the rules. He looked beyond the jump, aiming for a tree. It was still sloppy riding, to focus so much on a fixed point, but Arthur’s hands were shaking, and it helped him keep it together. He took a slow breath, and counted off the strides under his breath.

“Good,” he heard Merlin say, but then the jump was _right there_ and Arthur could either fall off or go over. He decided to go over.

“Good, Arthur!” Merlin called from the center of the ring. Arthur opened his eyes and realized they’d jumped and gone halfway around the ring. He heard the smile in Merlin’s voice, “Next time, maybe keep your eyes open.”

Arthur grimaced, “Right,” he said.

Merlin grinned at him, shaking his head slowly. “Ok,” he said, “Let’s do a few more.”

Merlin had him go over jumps, each one progressively higher and more difficult than the last. The jumps were simple, and Arthur took them one at a time. He made a full circle around the ring after each jump before taking the next one, and the whole time, Merlin kept up a steady stream of corrections and compliments.

“You know,” Arthur called after he’d taken a jump that looked like a brick wall, “I don’t remember ever being corrected this much in just one lesson.”

“Well then you must have gotten _exceptionally_ sloppy,” Merlin answered. “And walk.” Arthur pulled Gwaine out of the canter, settling into a brisk walk. It would keep both of them alert and prepared. “Let’s try a course,” Merlin said. “Can you memorize it?”

Arthur scoffed and Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Right, then,” Merlin said. “Why don’t you--”

“Why don’t you give the poor man a break, Merlin?”

Arthur startled, but Merlin just smiled. “What can I do for you, Gaius?”

“You’ve got lessons. I don’t expect these children will prepare themselves for this show on their own, do you?”

“No, Gaius.” Merlin was laughing.

“Show?” Arthur asked, letting Gwaine fall back into a steadier and easier walk.

“A charity show,” Merlin said, walking over and hooking his hand in Arthur’s reins. Artur slipped off Gwaine, landing next to Merlin on the ground. Their shoulders bumped, and hidden from Gaius by Gwaine’s body, Arthur offered Merlin a half private smile. Merlin grinned back openly before he continued. “It’s held in Wales every year. They get some famous riders, some famous trainers, and a whole group of kids from barns like Camelot. We always bring a few kids--” Merlin broke off, a strange look on his face. “Well, Gwen brings a few kids. I stay here.”

“You don’t go?”

“No. We split the lessons. Work on our strengths with the kids so that they have a good time and hopefully do well.”

“If Camelot sends kids, don’t they ever ask you to ride in the show?”

“I don’t show,” Merlin said shortly. “I can’t.”

“Right,” Arthur answered, aware of Gaius still standing on the side of the ring, clearing his throat impatiently. “But don’t they ask you to judge? A rider like you--you’re the best of the best, Merlin. Why wouldn’t they ask--”

Merlin’s mouth was tight. “I don’t show,” he said again. “You should cool him down. I have to go and teach a lesson. Gaius! I’ll be right up. Can you start the kids off with a warm up?”

Arthur hadn’t felt so good in a long time. He was---happy. He felt _whole_. “Merlin!” he called out. Merlin paused, but didn’t turn around. “I’d like to ride,” Arthur said, “In the show. If they’d have me.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Gaius said before Merlin could answer. “I’ll put you in touch with the right people, shall I?”

“Yes, thanks,” Arthur answered.

Merlin didn’t say anything, but Arthur was sure he saw him smile.

~~~

It had been a long time since Merlin had felt as terrible as he did, but the next morning, when he went to get out of bed, he felt like he was dying. He pushed the covers back and stood up, automatically reaching around to rub the soreness out of his back, but once his legs were under him, he fell forward, and god help him, he screamed.

Gwen poked her head around the door, her face worried. When she saw him on the floor, she paled. “Jesus Merlin,” she said sharply, “What on Earth are you doing? Have you been riding again? How can I help?” She barely paused for breath. “God, oh god, I’m sorry, I’m yelling. Are you ok? Should I call the doctor?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said, allowing her to pull him to his feet. The strange thing was, he _was_ fine. He felt fine. Whatever it was had passed, his back didn’t even ache. “My legs must’ve been asleep. I just frightened myself when I toppled over. I’m all limbs, you know that,” he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing. She laced their fingers together, but looked skeptical.

“Must’ve done,” she answered quietly.

“You were out rather late last night,” Merlin said, forcing a change in subject. He dragged her out of his room, and only let go when they got to the kitchen. She sighed at him and flopped into a chair, dropping her head onto the table. Merlin grinned, “Very late, then,” he teased, fluffing her curls and going to make her a mug of coffee. “A bloke! Tell me about him.”

“He’s very handsome,” Gwen answered woefully.

“Don’t sound so cheerful about it,” Merlin laughed. He set the mug down in front of her, and she curled her fingers around it.

“He’s charming,” she said slowly, “And clever. Really clever. He’s a writer, you know. And he likes horses.”

“That all sounds promising,” Merlin said, “Why do you look so horrified?”

“It’s too good to be true! Isn’t it? Charming and handsome, there must be something wrong with him.”

“Why don’t you bring him around to the barn?”

“I will,” Gwen smiled. “You sure you’re fine, though? That was--frightening.”

Merlin dropped a kiss on top of her head and a plate of eggs in front of her. “I feel wonderful,” he answered. “I haven’t ridden in a few days, I think I’ll call Arthur and see if he’s up for a little friendly competition.”

Gwen snorted and waved him away, so Merlin turned back toward his room to get changed. “Oh, Merlin?” she called, blinking up innocently at him through her lashes, “Kick his arse, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Merlin promised, smiling so hard it hurt.

~~~

“So what’s the course?” Arthur asked as he eased Gwaine out of the canter.

Merlin grinned, “It’s easy, don’t worry. I won’t go too hard on you just yet.”

“Oh please,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “I’m _sure_ that I’ll be loads better at riding than you.”

Merlin laughed. “We’ll see,” he promised. He’d drawn the course up on a map. It was easy, certainly easier than the courses that the two of them were used to competing on, but still harder than Arthur had yet ridden. For Merlin, too, it was difficult. Perhaps a little ambitious, given the way he’d woken up that morning, but he’d felt _wonderful_ since then, and Merlin’s body was so rarely this agreeable that he couldn’t waste the chance to try something a little rougher than normal. He’d cleared it with Gaius that morning, at least as far as Fish went. His godfather was still skeptical that it was something Merlin could handle.

The truth was, after the accident, Merlin’s body had been far more damaged than Fish’s. Fish would probably have made an excellent horse for someone showing on a less advanced circuit, and if nothing else, he would’ve been an amazing lesson horse. But he was Merlin’s horse, and so his repertoire had been limited over the years to fit Merlin’s limited capacities.

Merlin pushed his nervous thoughts aside. With the jumps laid out between them, he felt whole. His back hadn’t hurt in hours--it was the longest he’d ever gone without some amount of pain. “Think you can handle this?” he asked as he lead Arthur and Gwaine out to the old cross country course.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “You’re off your game,” he reminded Merlin, “Yesterday’s champion. Don’t worry about me, worry about you.”

There was a time--and maybe it was only a few days ago--when those words would have cut Merlin down. Today, they just made him laugh. He winked at Arthur, “What’s the winners prize, then?” he asked.

“Whatever he wants,” Arthur answered seriously.

“You’re quite dramatic,” Merlin said, snorting. “Right, here’s the start.”

For a second, the old cross country course looked like it had been there for thousands of years, but Merlin blinked, and it was gone. He swallowed a nervous laugh and laid his palm flat against Fish’s side. “Let’s show him what a real champion rides like,” Merlin whispered.

They took off. Fish was smaller than Gwaine, and more lithe. He could hear Arthur cantering along behind him, but he was lost in the moment. _Faster_ , he thought, determined to get a firm lead. Fish, as he always had, seemed to read Merlin’s mind. Merlin grinned and tucked down low, making himself as small an obstacle as possible. The wind whistled in his ears, and he counted strides as they approached the first jump.

He couldn’t even hear Arthur behind him. All Merlin knew was horse beneath him and the jump in front of him. He rose up, pressed his heels down, and gave Fish his head. The jump was in front of them, then below them, and finally behind them.

It was like flying, and it was like they’d never been stopped.

The second jump came up more quickly than the first, and Merlin counted heartbeats instead of strides. He and Fish had always communicated in a way that people often joked was preternatural, but nothing had ever felt more natural to Merlin than living in sync with his horse, caught in moments, trapped in flight.

Then they were at the third jump, and Merlin gave in to the sense of joy that was nearly bubbling out of him. He couldn’t hear Arthur behind him, or the birds, or anything but his horse and the wind in his ears. The laugh that spilled out of his mouth was involuntary and loud, but Merlin didn’t lose his focus. He felt lighter than a feather, and he threaded his fingers through Fish’s mane, breathing in. Then the third jump was behind them, and there were only two more.

Merlin’s body moved with Fish’s, their laboured breathing perfectly in sync. Merlin could feel it every time Fish’s feet touched the ground. He was aware of every flick of the horse’s tail. People had always thought it strange, the way that Merlin would reach up to flick a fly off Fish’s withers before the horse even had a chance to react, but for Merlin it was normal. He’d always been hypersensitive to his horse’s body. He could see the fourth jump around the corner, and he realized that he was going to win. He was still a champion. _They_ were still a team. Merlin exhaled sharply with the realization, relief flooding through him. Together, as always, he and Fish rounded the corner to take the jump. They were riding, they were riding, they were _jumping_ and--

It was like a switch went off.

Merlin screamed before he really processed the pain, his body reacting before his mind did. He felt the way each of his muscles tensed and spasmed, he felt his feet slide out of the stirrups, and his arms pinwheel. He felt it the moment he left the saddle. Merlin _felt_ everything--Each second that passed, the way the air pressed against his body as he fell. He felt heavy, as though gravity was actually reaching for him, clutching at his shoulders and yanking him against the ground. He felt the ground, too, when he hit it, hard and unyielding. After that, all Merlin felt was the pain.

It was like someone was scraping a razor blade down his spine and digging their fingers into the wounds. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. If anything was preternatural, he thought just before he finally hit the ground, it was this pain. It was _unreal_.

He heard Arthur then, just a shout, just a fragment of a word, and then everything was black, and Merlin didn’t feel anything at all.

~~~

There was sand in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to scream, but could only swallow it, thick, soggy grains that burned every inch of him.

“Merlin!”

He tried to open his eyes.

“Merlin! Open your eyes, Merlin, please.”

“Gwen?”

There was grass underneath him, and as he blinked away black spots from his vision, he realized it wasn’t Gwen. “Arthur?” he tried to ask, the sand pressing against his tongue. He coughed and cringed, trying to get away from the ache. It was less than it had been, more of a smolder. The worst part was how foreign it felt.

Merlin had been hurting for a long time. Long enough that he’d claimed his pain as his own--long enough that it was something he accepted. He’d made his peace with that pain, the constant ache and shiver of his bones, but this was not that. This pain was unfamiliar and harsh, it was new, yes, but it was different. Merlin couldn’t put words to it, just that it felt foreign. It felt wrong.

“Invasive,” he mumbled, getting his arms under himself and trying to sit up. This time he didn’t have the energy to scream, he just collapsed back against the grass and focused on breathing and not throwing up. Above him, Arthur looked frantic. “S’fine,” Merlin said, “M’fine.” He thought about trying to sit up again, but stayed where he was.

“You’re fine?” Arthur sounded angry. “Merlin, you are not fine.”

Which, to be honest, felt too much like stating the obvious for Merlin to waste energy responding. “M’up,” he said. He shook his head and took a slow breath, saying the words more deliberately, “Help--me--u-up.” He stumbled over the words, choking on imagined sand.

“We need to get you inside, can you move?”

“Yes?” Merlin half-asked, trying to lift himself up again. It hurt. He felt invaded, but the thought of Arthur carrying him anywhere was mortifying. “Fish--” he said.

“--Is fine. Merlin, I’m going to carry you.”

“No!” Merlin answered, “ _Fish_.”

“You think you can ride?” Arthur’s hand was pressing against his cheek. “Stay with me Merlin, don’t close your eyes.”

“N’choice, have to ride,” Merlin said, sounding a lot more certain than he felt.

“But your back--I shouldn’t move someone with a back injury.”

Arthur was right, but the thought of lying out here on his back, alone, while Arthur went to find help made Merlin shudder. The pain was _invasive_ , and Merlin felt hunted. He couldn’t explain why--not in any logical way. He just knew, keenly, without doubt, that they were in very real danger, and they couldn’t stay here. He cast his eyes around, half frantic, said, “Arthur you can’t just leave me.”

Arthur frowned and moved his hand to Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin reached up, with effort, and grabbed Arthur’s hand. “I can do this,” he said firmly, “I can. It’ll hurt but--” how could Merlin describe the knowledge he had? The feeling that they had to leave, and that leaving was the only thing that wouldn’t hurt. He panted, and focused all his attention on that invasive, foreign pain. Leave, he thought desperately, trying to convince his body to let him do this. _Leave, leave, leave_.

Merlin heard more than felt a strange breeze. The wind rushed through his ears, and Arthur went pale.

“Your eyes,” Arthur said.

“We need to leave,” Merlin half gasped. The wind hadn’t gone away, he could still hear it rushing all around him. _Leave_ , he thought again. “Help me up.”

Arthur reached down and pulled Merlin to his feet. Merlin still felt weak and shaken, but he wasn’t falling over. Together, they hobbled over to where Fish and Gwaine were waiting. Arthur gripped Merlin around his waist, and with his help, Merlin half-dragged, half-lifted himself into the saddle.

As soon as he was on Fish’s back, he slumped forward. Out of habit, and for security, he curled his fingers in Fish’s mane. He focused on his breathing. “We need to go,” he said softly. Arthur was still silent, and still pale, but he climbed onto Gwaine and started back the way they’d come, Merlin clutching Fish’s neck and trying not to get sick the whole way back to the barn.

~~~

“It’s a waiting game, now,” Gaius said as he slipped out of the guest room Merlin was asleep in. Arthur sagged back against the wall. “We’ll just have to hope that he wakes up. You say he was conscious after the fall?”

“Yes,” Arthur answered. “He was definitely awake--he spoke with me, he had me help him get on Fish--he wasn’t--I mean, I wouldn’t have--”

“It’s all right, Arthur. Why don’t I get you a cup of tea?”

“It was the fourth jump,” Arthur said softly. “The fourth jump--he was doing so well and then--”

“Arthur,” Gaius’s voice was sharp, but not unkind. “Don’t let those fears get the best of you. Merlin is a rider, and riders have bad falls. There’s nothing more than that to it.”

“But his accident--”

“Has left him with serious injuries, Arthur. Something which he decided not to respect. It was foolish, and dangerous, but he will recover. These superstitions are not becoming of anyone. It would be best for you to put them to rest.”

Arthur frowned, more because Gaius was probably right than because he wasn’t being listened to. Whatever he was thinking belonged in his nightmares, not in his reality. Still, in the forest--”Gaius?” he asked.

“Yes, Arthur?” Gaius looked over his shoulder from where he was pouring hot water into two mugs. Arthur had known Gaius for a long time. Morgana had as well. At first, Arthur thought that was why she’d picked Camelot, but her budding friendship with Gwen was evident, and more than that, Morgana had always know what Arthur needed.

Even when they weren’t talking, even when they were at their worst, Morgana was his sister, and she knew him well. Arthur was beginning to suspect that at the root of her choice of Camelot was Merlin. Arthur had, however, known Gaius for a long time, and he swallowed any embarrassment he felt about the question he was about to ask.

“He hit his head, didn’t he? I only ask because his eyes--something strange happened. They turned gold for a moment, just before he managed to get up on the horse. Is that--could a concussion cause that?”

Gaius turned slowly. He met Arthur’s gaze, and he looked--surprised, and concerned, but it was only for a moment. “Arthur, you’ve had quite the day,” Gaius said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you.” Gaius pressed the tea into Arthur’s hands, “Why don’t you go drink this down at the barn. I imagine the horses would like your company, and they’re a good deal less busy than I am.”

“But Merlin--”

“Will recover more quickly if he’s left in peace.”

Arthur knew when he was being scolded, and Gaius wasn’t being very subtle about it. The man had worked for Arthur’s father once, and back in those days, Arthur had lived like a prince. He’d been young, then, and on the way to being something. Something more than this, anyway.

“Of course, Gaius,” Arthur said with as much diplomacy as he could muster. He wanted, more than anything, to go up and sit with Merlin, but it seemed that was not going to be the case. At least not yet. So Arthur did the second best thing, he went out to sit with Merlin’s horse and wait for Gaius to fall asleep.

~~~

Everything was black, which made it hard to tell if the walls were white when Merlin woke up. He moved that to the cons list, but counted it a pro that he hadn’t woken up screaming. It didn’t smell like hospital here, and as far as he could tell, he wasn’t surrounded by bleeping machines. It was also black, so a hospital was unlikely.

“I wish the lights were on,” he murmured. He blinked, and then they were. He felt tired, and didn’t want to turn his head to look around. The yellow glow cast shadows up against the ceiling--shadows shaped like monsters, but they were familiar ones. He was in the room at Gaius’s that he usually slept in--so not a hospital. That was good. He’d worry about the lights turning on later. For now, he wanted a glass of water and a piss.

He shifted to knock the covers off of him, his eyes still on the ceiling, and only when he pulled his hand to push away the blankets did he realize someone was holding it. Merlin’s head snapped to the right, and he was surprised when he saw Arthur there.

Their fingers were laced together. Merlin could feel the warmth of them, now that he was paying attention. For a second, he didn’t want to let go, but he was really thirsty, and he hadn’t wet the bed since he was a child. He didn’t want to start now.

“Arthur,” he said softly.

He’d expected a tired grumble as his words woke Arthur up. He’d expected a startled jump, maybe, if Arthur was deep asleep. What he hadn’t expected was the way Arthur shot up, awake and alert like Merlin had just dumped cold water on him. Arthur’s eyes met his, and for a suspended moment, they just stared at each other.

 

“What time is it?” Merlin asked, to break the stillness of the moment. Arthur didn’t answer. He moved slowly, or maybe that was just how Merlin perceived it. Merlin could nearly catalogue the motions that Arthur went through, the way he slid a hand through his hair, making it even more mussed than sleeping had. That was familiar though, at least. Here, with the yellow lamp light casting shadows all around a room that was almost Merlin’s own, that motion was the most familiar thing.

What was unfamiliar was what came next. Arthur pulled his hand away from Merlin’s, leaving Merlin’s fingers curling awkwardly on the blankets, still shaped to be laced with Arthur’s. Merlin felt tired and bewildered, and he blinked owlishly up at Arthur as he leaned in close, closer still. Arthur filled Merlin’s field of vision. There were no more shadows on the ceiling, only the ones in Arthur’s eyes that so closely mirrored Merlin’s own. Arthur tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Merlin’s neck, and automatically, Merlin closed his eyes.

When Arthur kissed Merlin, it was gentle. Closed mouth and careful, but his lips were chapped, and he kissed like someone who hadn’t done much kissing in a very long time. Merlin was tired, and he was tired of feeling tired, and he was tired of being this broken thing, betrayed by his body and his supposed talent again and again and again. He was done with it all. Merlin didn’t want to be kissed gently. Merlin wanted to be _kissed_.

He fisted his hands in Arthur’s shirt, pulling him until Arthur was more or less on the bed. For a moment, Arthur responded to Merlin, who pulled him as close as he could get. Merlin kissed Arthur like he had everything to lose--it wasn’t gentle, it was demanding, it was entitled, it was a perfect mimicry of the way Arthur reacted to nearly everything. Merlin slipped a hand under Arthur’s shirt and traced his fingers over the scar.

Like he’d been burned, Arthur jumped away. He looked, Merlin thought with not a little appreciation, _thoroughly_ kissed. His mouth was red, and his hair mussed, and if it wasn’t for the panicked look in his eyes, Merlin would have jumped him.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, blinking at Merlin like he’d never seen him before. “This--was a mistake.”

Merlin gaped at him. “I--you--what?”

“I should go home,” Arthur continued, as though Merlin hadn’t spoken. “You seem to be doing much better, and I have things that need to get done.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Arthur!”

The only answer Merlin got to that was a view of Arthur’s back and then the door to his room slammed so hard that it rattled the windows.

Once Arthur’s footsteps had faded on the stairs, Merlin felt the full weight of his body like it had been doubled. He collapsed back against the pillows and closed his eyes, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He felt vaguely ill, and he still had to piss. He thought about getting up, but decided it took too much effort.

He was not, of course, able to hear Arthur’s car as it drove away, that would be ridiculous.

Still, the ghost of a sound hung heavy in the room, the clash of steel on steel, of horses screaming and men dying, and the strangely manic laughter of a child.

~~~

When Merlin woke up next, it was from the vestiges of a nightmare, and someone was holding his hand. “Arthur?” he asked, more hopeful than he wanted to sound. It was lucky for him, then, that his voice came out as a half-hearted croak more than anything else, because it meant the word didn’t sounds like much of anything at all.

“You’re an idiot,” a voice that was decidedly not Arthur answered. “What were you thinking?”

“Cheers, Will,” Merlin said, accepting the glass of water Will offered him. For all the angry bluster, Will gave Merlin’s hand a reassuring squeeze, falling into silence while Merlin sipped from the glass and let his body and his mind shake off the cobwebs of a nightmare that seemed at once too far away and too close. “What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“Gwen’s on holiday,” Will answered, “With her new boyfriend.”

“Holiday?” Merlin asked, “This close to the show?”

“Well, it’s not a proper holiday. They’re scoping out places for the kids to sleep. Inns and the like. Why aren’t you surprised that she has a new boyfriend?”

“We’ve spoken about him. She didn’t say she was leaving.”

“Morgana le Fey announced it this morning while you were still getting your beauty sleep, apparently. Do you think I could shag her?”

“Gwen?”

“Did you hit your head especially hard? Morgana! Anyway, that’s beside the point. Gwen made me come here all the way from Dublin to babysit you, so something must be wrong. She was worried when I saw her off.”

Merlin flinched and look off to the side, “I don’t know,” he said.

“You sound horrid,” Will added conversationally. “Want to go down to the barn?”

“I’m allowed out of bed?”

“No,” Will grinned, “But when’ve I ever followed the rules?”

So Merlin got dressed, and with Will’s help, he made his way down to the barn. He was thoroughly bundled up in a hoodie, and leaning more heavily on Will than he’d be comfortable admitting to anyone else, but when they’d finally settled on a bench outside the lesson ring, Merlin tucked himself comfortably against Will’s side. It was all right, really, to be less than ok with Will. It was never all right to be less than honest.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Merlin said quietly. “I’ve been doing well--don’t roll your eyes, Will. I mean it. No attacks, not too sore. I’ve been ok. I wasn’t riding too hard. I know my body--it’s, this isn’t my body doing this.”

“Right,” Will answered, “Of course, silly me. It’s obviously not you stressing out your already stressed out body, pushing limits that aren’t meant to be pushed, doing a full-on jumping course on your horse! No. It’s magic, is it? Must be.”

“What if I told you one of the horses had started talking to me? And that I think--it might really be someone magic doing this.”

Will went completely still beside Merlin, “I love you,” he said, “You’re my best mate. You can tell me anything--so if you need help, Merlin, you can tell me that.”

Merlin jerked away from him. “You think I’m mental, is that it?” he snapped. “I’m not lying and I’m not seeing things! You think I’m going mad?”

“I think you just told me that the horses are talking to you and that you think you’re being attacked by some sort of wizard--I think that’s really very bad. Let me help--”

“Sod off, Will.”

Merlin got to his feet and tried to make as graceful a departure as he could. Arthur’s car wasn’t out front, and the barn was almost too quiet for the middle of the morning. When he realized that Arthur wasn’t there, his heart sank.

He fell forward, landing hard on his hands and knees in the grass by the barn. He was so tired. “Will?” he said, half panicked by the lethargy that had fallen over him like a net.

“Right here, Merlin,” Will said, with more patience than Merlin thought he deserved. “Back to bed for you, I think.”

“I’d rather sit out here.”

Will hesitated, “Fine. Why don’t we go sit with Fish?”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Merlin offered guiltily, “It’s just, something is happening,” Merlin looked around slowly, it felt like he was being watched. “Something big--and it’s got to do with me and Arthur.”

“The kid’s show is in a week, why don’t you focus on that? If you’re not feeling better by the time that comes around, we’ll start worrying.”

“I won’t be able to teach lessons today,” Merlin realized. “Tanya and James still have so much work to do with their jumping--I can’t just leave them.”

“I thought I might teach today.”

Merlin looked at Will in surprise, “You never teach.”

“I don’t like the system. Privileged kids, training spoiled brats and watching them treat the horses like that. Besides, no one’s ever called me much of an eventer.”

Merlin snorted. That was true. Will’s chosen method of horse riding was vaulting. He was one of the best competitors in the country, especially when he competed in freestyle events. When Merlin had been younger, he’d thought the image of Will in a leotard standing next to a horse had been comical at best. The first time he’d seen his friend compete, though, he’d been blown away. Vaulting was, essentially, gymnastics on horseback, and Will was especially good at a unique kind of freestyle. While many of the other competitors at Will’s level were fond of classical or pop tunes, Will competed with blaring rock music, and he won. All the time. Every time.

Vaulting was a more friendly group than eventing, at least in Merlin’s experience, and so Will’s many competitors often came by and shared tricks or did demonstrations with the students at Camelot. It was strange for Merlin to acknowledge that he and Arthur could never have been friends if Merlin was still competing--of course, Merlin wasn’t sure they were friends now. Especially not after last night. He sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Cheer up,” Will said, squeezing Merlin’s shoulders. “I’m about to teach your riders how to improve their jumping seats--only, I’m going to have them do it while standing on the horse.”

Merlin groaned, but let Will get him settled with Fish. He watched the lesson through one of the windows into the ring. Will was well behaved, and succumbed to showing off only once Tanya and James had each done the jump course without error.

“Merlin!”

He’d almost drifted off, and he jumped a little. “Will?” he answered, half a question. His friend was stretching. Merlin groaned, “Oh no,” he said. “Don’t do that, Will, come on.” It was half hearted, though. Merlin loved the opportunity to watch Will ride. Especially if it wasn’t vaulting.

Watching Will vault was a joy, but watching Will do dressage and jump? _That_ was a privilege. Merlin had always considered it lucky that he and Will would never truly compete. They were almost matched in skill. Merlin might have more experience and stringent training, but when it came to natural talent, he and will were easily equals. Will did things with horses that Merlin sometimes thought he’d never be able to do himself, and he brought a unique flare to even the most classic disciplines. It was lucky, indeed, that they would never compete with each other. Merlin was rather convinced that he’d lose.

“Here’s how you take the jumps, kiddos,” Will was saying when Merlin stopped thinking and tuned back in to what was going on in the ring. Merlin waved, and Will winked, waving a hand in Merlin’s direction. “You can have your instructor give me a score when I’m done.”

All in all, it was a pleasant afternoon spent bundled on a bench, yelling at Will, and watching the kids giggle. It accomplished what Merlin assumed Will had planned to accomplish--Merlin was thoroughly distracted.

~~~

The weather in Wales was sticky. It was balmy and warm for early September. Merlin sighed and pressed his face up against the nearest window. “Quit moping,” Will said from somewhere behind him.

“Put a shirt on,” Merlin shot back.

Will came up behind him and draped his body over Merlin’s. It wasn’t a pleasant embrace. Will was hot and sticky from the lesson he’d just given, and he stank. He’d always been good at getting what he wanted out of Merlin, and today it seemed that he wanted Merlin to stop flopping dramatically around the van.

“You’re going to die of heat stroke if you sit in here,” Will continued, laughing at Merlin’s squirming.

“I’m going to die of heat stroke because you’re sitting on me,” Merlin snapped.

“Oh stop,” Will answered, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. Let’s go, come on, don’t you want to help the kids get settled?”

Will had a point. They’d been at the venue for nearly half an hour, and Merlin had spent all of it resolutely curled up in the van with his face smushed against the window. He shouldn’t be here. The Albion Trials were starting soon, and Merlin had spent every show since the accident as far away from any events as possible. He hadn’t been so close, so involved in a competition in a long, long time. Merlin was frightened, but that was stupid, and not at all logical, and it scared him that he was so out of control.

Will’s hand was warm against the back of his neck. “What do you say I put a shirt on, and you get out of the van, and we’ll go have a ride?”

“I can’t ride here.”

“Then why’d we bring Fish? Merlin, hey,” Will crouched down next to Merlin, his hand still rubbing slow circles at the base of Merlin’s neck. “I get it, mate, you’re scared. You’re allowed to be scared--no, look at me, c’mon, it’s fine. This is hard for you, and it’s ok that you’re being irrational, it’s not bad and no one is going to judge you.”

“But Will--”

“Let me finish! Christ, you talk a lot. Arthur--who is a huge prat--has dragged his sorry arse up to this show, and he’s scared too. He has to ride in front of people again because he made a promise. Don’t you think you owe it to him to be there to take some of the pressure off him? Don’t you think you might have made a kind of promise too?”

“When did you become the competent one in our relationship?” Merlin joked.

Will’s eyes were sad, and Merlin’s stomach knotted up. “When I had to, mate,” Will said, “But hey, happy to pass the baton right back at you. Just say the word.”

Will jumped up and scrambled out of the van, and--Merlin was relieved to note--he put a shirt on. After a second’s hesitation, Merlin followed him out into the dubious sunshine of the Welsh morning, and tried to remember how to breathe. Will fluffed his hair, and Merlin squeaked indignantly, and together they stepped into the barn.

~~~

“Mr. Emrys! Mr. Emrys! Hey! Merlin!”

Merlin stopped in the middle of the parking lot he was standing in, and turned around to see who was yelling. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Hi,” the quite attractive, actually, man said, panting. “Sorry, just a second, I’ve been--running.”

Merlin looked at him more closely, “I know you.”

“Lance,” the man said, straightening up and offering a hand. “I interviewed you a while back. Actually, I ran into you in New York at a convention.”

Merlin, much to his own pride, didn’t flinch. “Right,” he said, nodding. “You’re the bloke who told me about Arthur’s accident.”

Lance had the good grace to look sheepish, “I’m sorry,” he said, and to Merlin’s surprise, he sounded honest. “I wasn’t thinking--attacking you like that was hardly courteous.”

“I’m not used to courtesy from reporters--”

“Right, but that’s all wrong. You should be.” Lance smiled, “Anyway, I just wanted to properly introduce myself before tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Didn’t Gwen tell you?” Lance asked, looking eager. “There’s a private dinner for all the instructors and guest riders. We’re all really looking forward to seeing you and Arthur. It’s like something out of a movie, you two picking each other back up.”

There was a lot of information to process in that sentence. “Sorry,” Merlin said, “How do you know Gwen?”

Lance gaped at him for a moment, but recovered quickly. He was clearly the sort who had control over his actions. Merlin envied that.

“We’re seeing each other,” Lance said after a heartbeat. “I thought she had told you.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Merlin grimaced, “She did, I guess. Sort of. I just wasn’t listening. So there’s a dinner tonight, and there’ll be press there?”

Lance recovered quickly, “Yes, but of course only invited press. It’s meant to be a good crowd. Everyone wants the best for you and Arthur, you know. For a lot of us your riding is something quite extraordinary. I know one rider in particular who’s really looking forward to meeting you. He’s one of the guest judges.”

“Yeah?” Merlin was distracted. “That’s lovely, really. I have to go--the horses, and Arthur, uhm.”

Lance looked disappointed, “Of course,” he said graciously, “It was nice to meet you properly, Merlin. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Mmm,” Merlin answered, already walking away.

~~~

Merlin hated the room the moment he walked into it. That might’ve been a harsh judgement, or one he was too quick to, but it was the truth either way he tried to cut it. The room was gilded in the way that everything Merlin had ever hated about the equestrian world was gilded. There was a sheen to it, like someone had spent too much time scrubbing away the dirt and dust and had left the skin raw. The tables were _gleaming_ , the _glasses_ were shining, and the people there were all dressed like they had somewhere to be. Merlin, though, had nowhere to be, except maybe the hotel room he’d just come from. He turned to leave.

“Merlin, please,” Gwen said, and it was the tone—somehow placating and sincere all at once, that made Merlin stop halfway through his turn away. He sighed and looked at her before he nodded. They were both underdressed, but it didn’t matter, the crowd would have stared at him either way. He halted when Gwen finally found their table, his eyes landing on Arthur.

It was the first time he’d seen Arthur since they’d kissed, the awkward and silent van ride aside. Merlin smiled, and Arthur broke eye contact and looked away. “Right,” Merlin said to the empty air. “Of course.”

He dropped down into his seat and stared morosely at the glass of water in front of him. He stared at it . . . until it turned into something else--champagne. “Whoa,” he said, blinking, but then he realized the glass had been set down by a waiter, who had placed identical glasses next to Gwen and Arthur, and Lance—who Merlin hadn’t even noticed join them at the table. There was a cough from the front of the room, and a polite smattering of applause that Merlin elected not to participate in. He did look up, though. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but what he saw wasn’t it.

The kid standing next to the podium was small and thin, with floppy dark hair and skin so pale that Merlin thought it might be translucent. It wasn’t his physicality that made Merlin sit up a little straighter. It wasn’t even the fact that Merlin felt strangely like he knew him, it was the look on his face that was gone almost as fast as it’d been there. A look of contempt. Merlin felt, just for a second, a little sick to his stomach. “Good evening,” the boy said, and he was _just a boy_ , “And thank you all for coming. I’m honored to be the host of this fine event—it will be a wonderful chance for all of us to get to know each other. This evening, I have the pleasure to be surrounded by peers and friends—some of the best riders in the world have come here to participate in an event meant to inspire hope in future riders. If you don’t know me—and I hope you do, because just the other day I was told I’m Justin Bieber for equestrians—my name is Mordred, and I’ll be one of the celebrity riding judges at the show tomorrow. I know we have many big names amongst us tonight—but just to draw your attention to a few essential people: Morgana le Fey is here. I’m sure she’s a woman who needs no introduction. And we are, of course, all glad to see Arthur Pendragon back amongst us. He has been sorely missed—“

“Who is this kid?” Merlin mumbled, nudging Gwen as the boy continued to recite names and accomplishments of various guests. Gwen rolled her eyes at him and held up a finger.

“Shush,” she hissed.

“And although we have many friends and accomplished riders here with us tonight, I hope you’ll all forgive me a moment of favoritism. Tonight I have the unique pleasure of welcoming back a person who has been away from the world for far too long. I know I’m not alone in this room when I say that it’s a relief and an inspiration to see him here tonight, so I hope you will all join me in welcoming Merlin Emrys back into our world.”

The applause was loud, and Merlin startled and flushed before Gwen half shoved him to his feet. He stood for as long as he could stand the attention before he dropped back down into his seat, inclining his head in what he hoped came across as a gesture of gratitude in Mordred’s direction. When the silence had finally died down, Mordred began speaking again.

“Merlin was an inspiration to me when I was still too young to know how achievable dreams were. I was only beginning my career when he had his accident, but he has always been in my thoughts. I can only hope Merlin knows how glad I am to see him here, so that things can finally be finished.” Mordred paused, and smiled an eerie smile. “To old friends,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.

“To old friends,” the room echoed.

For the first time that night, Mordred met Merlin’s gaze. He held it as he sipped his champagne, and as Merlin looked into Mordred’s cold stare, he felt his back begin to ache.

~~~

It was a special sort of pleasure, even though they weren’t really speaking, for Arthur to watch Merlin work. He’d woken up with a headache from dinner the night before. He attributed it to the champagne he’d had, but even so, he couldn’t help but place part of the blame on Mordred--the enigmatic child who had lauded Merlin’s accomplishments, and stared at their table, for most of the night.

Even if they weren’t really speaking, Arthur had spent a fair portion of the night stepping between Mordred and Merlin each time the youth approached. Every time Mordred had spoken to him, Merlin had turned a little paler. By the end of the night, Arthur was properly buzzed, but Merlin was--off kilter. They’d walked back to the trailer together, and although Merlin had said, in a half-pissed sort of way that he’d wanted to make sure Arthur got home without falling down and breaking something--it seemed to Arthur that it was Merlin who needed the majority of the support. They’d spent the night in the horse trailer, rather than the hotel. It had been a shorter walk, and both of them had wanted the familiarity of the surroundings.

Now, however, it was morning. Merlin had been gone when Arthur had woken up, and so Arthur had headed into the barn. He’d tacked Gwaine up, intending to go for a relaxing ride to calm his nerves, and instead had found himself heading in the direction of Merlin’s voice. Loud and purposeful, even when Arthur wasn’t the one being instructed, it still drew him in. He was hoping to talk with Merlin. They’d seemed to have forged something of a truce the evening before, and he missed Merlin’s company.

What occurred between dusk and dawn, however, seemed to have been forgotten in the weak morning light that strained through a thin cloud cover. The evening chill hadn’t quite worn off yet, and Arthur rubbed his arms, wishing he’d grabbed a jumper.

Merlin was sitting on the fence around a ring that the organizers had deemed appropriate for practicing. There was no one around yet, just Merlin and the poor girl he’d dragged out of bed before breakfast.

“Good, Sally, that’s good. Use your eyes--don’t rely so heavily on your hands. This is about communication. Try the purple crossrail again, and this time I want to hear you counting paces. Ready? Start now--one...”

Merlin’s voice carried out over the area, and Arthur let it wash over them. He straightened up himself, shifting his weight in the saddle. Gwaine was complacent as they meandered over. Occasionally, the big palomino darted for a mouthful of grass, but it seemed to be intended to give Arthur a hard time, rather than for an actual snack. Arthur clucked his tongue absentmindedly, and Gwaine picked up his pace.

“Morning,” he called to Merlin. “Grab the gate for me?” He watched with a critical eye as Merlin slid gingerly down off the fence. His limp was more pronounced again, and as Sally counted off her paces on the jump course, Arthur counted Merlin’s. He’d gotten used to the rhythm over the last two months, but it was still strange to see when it was so obvious. “How are you feeling?” Arthur continued once Merlin had the gate opened. He rode past him, reaching a hand out to slide his fingers absentmindedly through Merlin’s hair.

Merlin jumped, and Gwaine skittered back a few steps, surprised by the sudden motion. Arthur laughed at the red flush that spread over Merlin’s face. “Isn’t ‘no sudden movements’ the first thing they taught you? Remember your lessons, Mr. Emrys!”

Merlin’s smile wasn’t exactly cold, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and he didn’t say anything to Arthur. Instead, he turned back to Sally. “Did you think I wouldn’t see you nick that pole?” he asked. “I heard it. Take the rail again.”

“Merlin,” Sally said, “I’m hungry. We’ve done this course a bajillion times, and I need to change my leg brace. Can’t it wait?”

“Sally, we’ve only two days before the show--” Merlin said.

“Of course, Sally,” Arthur answered over him. “You’ve done really well today. Why don’t you take him through a cool down and then head back up for breakfast?”

Arthur glared when Merlin opened his mouth to protest, and was gratified when Merlin shut it again. When Sally’d left the ring and was well enough out of hearing, Arthur dismounted and rounded on Merlin. “What was that about? She’s just a kid! This is supposed to be fun for her.”

“She was sloppy.”

“She was hungry.”

Merlin didn’t answer him, and Arthur sighed. “Come on, Merlin,” he said. “Can we talk?”

Merlin didn’t look at him. He fixed his eyes resolutely on the ground.

“Fine,” Arthur sighed. “Why don’t you ride? You haven’t since we got here. You must be going mad.”

Merlin shook his head, “I can’t ride here it’s--”

“Don’t be daft. Come on.” Arthur swung down off of Gwaine and walked over to Merlin. He grabbed Merlin’s hand and tugged him around to Gwaine’s side. When Merlin was finally between Arthur and Gwaine, he turned and faced his back to Arthur. For a second, Arthur thought he was going to be a child about it. Instead, Merlin lay his palm flat against Gwaine’s neck and sighed so hard that Arthur could see it in the rise and fall of his shoulders. “Come on,” Arthur said again, letting his hands fall to Merlin’s waist. “Do you need a hand getting up?”

Again, Merlin didn’t say anything out loud. He held still, strung up and taut, like he was ready to run. Arthur wasn’t sure he understood where Merlin’s anxiety was coming from. He squeezed Merlin’s waist and leaned forward, brushing his lips against the nape of Merlin’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he said, so quietly that he wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all.

Merlin sagged back against Arthur, but Arthur caught him and held the weight. “What’s wrong?” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. In the past few months of knowing Merlin, Arthur had seen him go through an impressive array of highs and lows, but there was something different about the way Merlin reacted to his own body after the fall. Something that gave Arthur pause.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” Arthur said. Still no answer. “Come on. Get on the horse.” With some difficulty, Arthur managed to nudge enough space between himself and Merlin so that he could move. “Leg up,” Arthur insisted.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Merlin nodded his head. Arthur helped Merlin lift himself up, and when Merlin was finally settled in the saddle, he glanced down at Arthur, half a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry too,” he said, laughing. “You didn’t have to be such a--” he paused, apparently trying to find a word that would encompass Arthur. Arthur waited patiently.

“Use your words,” he suggested, laughing.

“Clotpole,” Merlin said with enough vehemence that Arthur almost choked on his tongue laughing.

“Are you always so eloquent? No wait, don’t tell me. I know the answer. Come on, oh great champion. Why don’t you show me what you can do?”

It apparently wasn’t going to take much convincing to get Merlin to ride. He nudged Gwaine forward into a smooth trot. Arthur was a good rider, he knew that. He was a champion of sorts, he knew that too. He was not, however, Merlin Emrys. He wondered if anyone would ever be, again.

Watching Merlin ride was like nothing else Arthur had ever done. There was something spectacular about it. Even on a horse that wasn’t Fish, Merlin was formidable. He moved like he could read Gwaine’s mind, anticipating and correcting each potential misstep before any mistakes could be made.

Merlin took the final jump in the practice course he’d set up for Sally, and Arthur felt himself relax. It was good to see Merlin relaxing too.

Behind him, someone began to clap.

“I cannot say how much of an honor it is to see you ride,” called out a childish voice. It sounded innocent in tone, but something about it made Arthur shift away. He glanced over his shoulder, and wasn’t surprised to see that the voice belonged to Mordred. “I thought you didn’t ride anymore,” the child continued, something like anger flashing over his face. “I was told you don’t ride.”

Merlin had drawn Gwaine to a halt, and had dismounted almost in sync with Mordred’s first words. Arthur watched carefully. He was paying enough attention to notice the way Merlin shifted his weight. His smooth, nearly imperceptible motions that meant something was wrong. It was the same cautious response he’d had to anything unfamiliar since he’d fallen. Arthur bristled.

“He rides,” Arthur called out to Mordred, standing up and stretching. He tried to make it look casual, the way he walked over to Merlin and planted himself half in front of him. Behind him, he felt Merlin shift from foot to foot. Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something that you needed, Mordred?”  

The full weight of Mordred’s gaze landed on him, and to Arthur, it seemed that he looked almost hungry.

“It’s been too long,” Mordred said, his voice thick, “Since I’ve seen either of you. So many years--” he trailed off and looked away. “We keep coming back to fight.”

“Mordred,” Merlin said, slowly and carefully, “We haven’t met before.”

That made Mordred laugh. Gleeful, childish giggles that made Merlin flinch. Arthur took a step closer to him.

“Haven’t we, though?” Mordred said, his voice full of amusement. “You two have always been so slow.” Mordred looked around. “Empty,” he said quietly. “Just the three of us. I could end it here and now. I could go back to sleep--but then, it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tuck the two of you back into bed. It doesn’t matter how many times I _win_!” he shouted the last word. “Every time, the fates intervene. Why don’t I get to keep my victories?”

Mordred’s gaze fell on Arthur, gold and cruel. Arthur had to fight the urge to take a step back.

“But this is all wrong,” Mordred snapped, looking around wildly. “The sword isn’t here--it can’t be now. I have to wait.” Mordred looked back at Merlin, and moved his fingers in slow circles. “Not yet,” Mordred said, “but I could limit your options.”

The child didn’t seem to be talking to anyone anymore, but his eyes flashed that same sick gold, so different than the gold Arthur sometimes imagined in Merlin’s gaze. After several suspended moments, Mordred turned to walk away.

“What a creepy child,” Arthur said.

Beside him, Merlin leaned over and threw up.

“I didn’t get sick on you, did I?” Merlin asked a few moments later as he lifted himself up and wiped his mouth. Arthur was surprised to realize that he had a hand on Merlin’s back. He didn’t remember putting it there. He frowned.

“No,” he said. “Are you—“

“Not really,” Merlin answered before Arthur finished his questions. “It’s something about him, Mordred. There’s something off there. I just—I don’t know what it is.”

“Maybe it’s the fact that he’s mad?” Arthur suggested. “The things he was saying, no one who’s right in the head would say that.”

Merlin closed his eyes and leaned back against Gwaine. “Maybe,” he said softly, “Stranger things have happened, yeah?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “Of course Merlin. Maybe next the horses will start talking.”

A strange look colored Merlin’s face, but he didn’t say anything, and Arthur ignored it.

~~~

~~~

~~~

~~~

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, staring at the woman in front of him. “What exactly are you saying?”

The vet straightened up and pushed long blonde hair out of her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, although she didn’t much look it. “You won’t be able to ride him in the show. You wouldn’t want to risk his leg like that.”

Arthur shook his head slowly, his eyes wide. “I can’t ride him?”

“Would you like me to repeat myself, Mr. Pendragon?”

Arthur gaped at her, “Do you know who I am?”

“There’s no need for that, Arthur,” Gaius said, stepping forward for the first time and placing his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “And as she has just said your last name, I think it’s a fair assuption that Doctor Morgause knows exactly who you are-- _and_ ,” Gaius held a hand up to stop Arthur from interrupting, “And that she had done everything in her power for Gwaine. I’m sure someone here has a horse you could borrow for the event.”

Arthur was pale. “I can’t just ride any horse,” he said, “It has to be Gwaine. I’ve practiced on Gwaine. I’m familiar with Gwaine.”

“Perhaps you could ride The Fisher King,” Morgause suggested, tucking a hoof-pick back into her bag. “I would be happy to check him over myself and verify his ability to compete.”

“Oh well how kind of you,” Arthur sneered. “How thoughtful.”

“Arthur! It’s hardly Morgause’s fault that Gwaine isn’t up to the event.”

Arthur didn’t care if he was being rude. There was something so unbelievable about the prospect of competing without Gwaine. Fish—well, that was marginally better, but it wasn’t the horse that Arthur had practiced on. He’d spent time with Gwaine, he’d learned on Gwaine. Riding after the accident wasn’t anything like riding before. He’d been a good rider before, he felt, much to his surprise, like he might have a chance now of being a great rider. At least, he had. Now there was no Gwaine to ride, and Arthur felt a little terrified.

Merlin was late, and chose that moment to come in. He was a quiet mover, something that had always struck Arthur as a little bit out of place. Merlin had the look of someone who blustered about in a good way, who filled a room just by being there. Merlin, as Arthur had come to know him, was muted, it was like someone had turned the dial down. Except, of course, when he was riding. But that day, Merlin was late, and he swung into the room on his uneven gate with his uneasy grace. He looked at Arthur and then at Morgause, and nobody had to tell him the news. He seemed to understand.

“You could ride Fish,” Merlin offered, leaning back against the wall and looking over at Arthur. There was something about the way he said it that made Arthur’s stomach twist. From Morgause, the words had been a challenge. When Merlin said them, though, he was offering his horse. It was hardly like borrowing a pen. Arthur swallowed, and found himself unable to meet Merlin’s gaze. “Ok,” Merlin said quietly. “That’s fine. You don’t have to—“ he broke off, and Arthur looked up in time to see a strange expression flit across his face. “Gaius? Who did we bring for a backup ride?”

“Aside from Fish?” Gaius asked, “We brought the new horse. You said something about selling him.”

“I think Arthur should ride him,” Merlin said, looking up at Arthur now, “I think that’s the best plan we’ve got.”

“You want me to ride a new horse? For the show in thirty-six hours?”

Merlin looked up at him and smiled—and like so many of Merlin’s smiles, it was only half there. Arthur could see the suggestion of the blinding smile that Merlin sometimes had, just a little, faintly, in the corners of Merlin’s mouth. That smile lived on, just as Merlin did. Arthur couldn’t help but wonder why it was so hard to find. “Don’t you think you can?” Merlin asked—a question, not a challenge.

Arthur bit his lip. “I can,” he decided finally. “Who is this horse, exactly? This new horse.”

The smile on Merlin’s face brightened just a little bit more, and there was something so alive in the way he straightened up and winked at Arthur. “He’s gorgeous,” Merlin announced, “This amazing grey—he’s one of the best looking horses I’ve ever seen.”

“What’s his name, Merlin?”

“Oh,” Merlin said, stretching, “It’s Excalibur.”

In the silence that followed, Arthur could hear the dust landing softly on the floor. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” Merlin looked awfully pleased with himself. “Let’s go meet him.”

“Merlin Emrys, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Something like that.”

~~~

When Merlin finally came out of the barn, leading Excalibur by his lead rope, Will gave a low whistle. Arthur shot him a dirty look, but he was impressed himself. “That,” Will said, apparently nonplussed by Arthur’s glare, “Is one fine horse.”

Merlin glanced at the horse, and to Arthur’s amusement, Excalibur glanced right back. Fine, as Will had used it, was an inadequate adjective. Beautiful, well-bred, incredible—the words that Arthur had used for impressive horses all his life seemed to fail them. Impressive just barely brushed the surface. Excalibur, for all that his name made Arthur bristle and Will laugh, was the most amazing animal that Arthur had ever laid eyes on—and he’d seen some impressive animals in his life. Even Arcturus hadn’t quite been like Excalibur.

“Here,” Merlin said, holding out the lead for Arthur to grab.

Arthur took it, and the horse leaned over and pressed his nose against Arthur’s shoulder. “Well,” Arthur said, surprised at such an instantaneous act of affection. Even Merlin, who Arthur had yet to see have a horse actively dislike him, had gotten something like bored indifference from Excalibur. With Arthur holding him, though, the horse seemed nearly docile. “Where’d you get him? I’d have noticed a horse like this at Camelot.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, “We have quite a few very decent horses at Camelot, thanks,” he said. “But my friend Freya gave him to me.”

“She gave him to you?”

“Mmm,” Merlin answered, in a way that suggested to Arthur that he wasn’t quite sold on the whole thing, “She actually had you in mind to be his rider.”

That gave Arthur pause. “Do I know her?”

“I don’t know. She seems to know you,” Merlin paused. “Will, go grab Excalibur’s tack.”

Arthur frowned, “I didn’t think of that,” he said, “What if the tack and I don’t get along?”

Merlin had that same strange expression on his face that Arthur kept seeing there, but like all the other times, it was only a flash. It was the bare suggestion of a look that hinted a knowledge--which was, frankly, preposterous.

“I think the tack will be perfect for you, Arthur.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Stop being such a _prat_ ,” Merlin said, “You get to ride and you get to ride an amazing horse.”

“If the tack fits.”

“It’s going to fit, Arthur!”

“There’s no need for shouting, _Mer_ lin. Where is the tack?”

“Do I look like a groom to you, your royal highness? Get the tack yourself,” Will called from where he had apparently dropped himself down onto the grass. He was lying spread out on his back with his hands behind his head, an inch or two of skin peeking out under the hem of his jumper. It wasn’t something that Arthur would ordinarily have noticed, if it weren’t for the way Merlin looked at Will. It was hardly a look full of wanton desire, or anything like that, but it was a look so full of affection that it made Arthur feel like he was looking at something private.

“Will,” Merlin scolded, that same affection as evident in his voice as it was on his face. “Please go and get Arthur’s tack.”

Will heaved a dramatic sigh, but he also rolled to his feet. Arthur followed Will with his eyes until he had disappeared into the barn, and it was just Arthur, Merlin, and the most beautiful horse that Arthur had ever seen. “How are you?” Arthur asked, glancing at Merlin. “You were pretty ill after Mordred left.”

Merlin scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground, and Arthur noted that the laces were half undone. “I’m fine, thanks,” Merlin said. “He’s just a creepy kid.”

“You’ll hurt yourself, like that,” Arthur answered.

Merlin looked confused, “Because I think Mordred is creepy?”

“What? No. I mean your laces--they’re untied.”

“Thanks mum,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes. Arthur grimaced. Even with the awkward situation over the kiss they Were Not Speaking Of, he couldn’t think of very many things he’d like less to be compared to than Merlin’s mum.

“Merlin,” he started, reaching out and brushing his fingers over Merlin’s wrist. Merlin looked up, clearly startled, and Arthur cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say--”

“Oi! Your _majesty_ , want to give me a hand here?” Will yelled as he walked toward them.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, “William,” he started, but when he glanced up, Will didn’t look upset that he was carrying the tack, he was still looking at Arthur’s hand, where his fingers were just barely curled around Merlin’s wrist. Arthur let go and shifted his weight. He was determinedly not looking at Will, but it was hard to miss the flash of concern and then anger across his face.

“Here’s the bloody tack,” Will half growled. “Why don’t you go rest, Merlin?”

“I’m going to coach Arthur through the first ride.”

“I can do that, mate.”

To Will’s credit, he actually did look concerned. It didn’t change the fact that Arthur felt like he’d just be challenged to the sort of bizarre pissing contest you didn’t get warned about, which was a horrible way to feel, because it’d been him who had pushed Merlin away in the first place. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, “While I’m sure your talents are--” he eyed Will for a moment, “--Unique, I would prefer working with Merlin. I have a limited amount of time to get used to the horse.”

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make sure you eat something, Merlin. You look a bit pale.” With those parting words, Will did an about face, turning and heading back into the barn. It was late enough in the day that the grounds were relatively quiet. There were only a few people around, and most of them seemed to be grooms or aids rather than the guest riders or judges.

As Will’s back disappeared into the barn, Excalibur gave a loud snort. Arthur chuckled and patted the horse’s neck, “My thoughts exactly,” he said quietly. Excalibur’s eyes fixed on him, and Arthur felt, inexplicably, like the horse was smiling.

“Right,” Merlin said, a slight frown on his face. “Let’s get him tacked up.”

Between the two of them, tacking up Excalibur went by without a hitch. It helped, of course, that Excalibur had the kind of ground manners some riders paid extravagantly for. “Are you sure he was free?” Arthur asked. “She didn’t introduce herself as Mephistopheles, did she?”

Merlin smiled. “No,” he said. “I’ve known Freya for a long time. She’s had her fair share of demons, but she does great work with horses.”

Arthur definitely agreed with that. He glanced at Merlin for a second before looking back at the horse.

“It’s all right to be nervous,” Merlin said when Arthur hesitated. “But I think this horse was made for you.”

Arthur took a shaky breath, but he nodded. He’d been riding Gwaine for too long now. Gwaine wasn’t his horse. It was silly to get attached. Still, Excalibur was slimmer than Arthur was used to, more obviously lithe and well bred. Arthur could feel it in the simple way Excalibur moved to take his first step. He could feel it in the steady pace of their warm-up, and he could feel it in the easy canter the horse picked up. When Merlin, standing--as ever--in the center of the ring finally nodded, Arthur headed for the first jump.

It reminded him, strangely enough, of the first time he’d ever jumped on his own. In those days, he’d ridden his mother’s horse, and it was his father standing imposingly in the center of the ring. Arthur remembered the way that it had felt, curled over the saddle in a protective crouch, his position horrible, but so intent, so ready to do what he’d seen his parents and all their students do.

He counted.

One, two, three, four--

\--Breathe.

_Fly_.

~~~

“Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the 50th annual Albion Trials. My name is Nimueh, and I’ll be your lovely announcer for the first day’s events. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the format, but just in case you aren’t, allow me to walk you through it.”

The woman striding back and forth in front of the group spoke with her hands, but she was so beautiful, so ethereal, that Arthur doubted anyone would pay any less attention to her if she held completely still.

“We will begin the day with dressage. By now, you all should have your numbers and time to start. If you don’t, well, shame on you!” Polite laughter rippled through the crowd, although Nimueh hadn’t actually been funny.

“Dressage will obviously be a chance for the judges--myself, young Mordred, and two surprise guests--to see if your lovely horses will be as graceful and controlled today as they will be strong and fearsome tomorrow. As this is the celebrity portion of our little charity gathering, you will all be judged at the highest level of competition. Only the best of the best compete here--and your judges expect a show. Is everybody ready?”

A cheer went up, Merlin leaned against Arthur’s side. He looked ill again. His face was pale, and his palm, where it was pressed against Arthur’s wrist, was clammy. “Merlin?” Arthur said softly, tilting his head to the side so that they wouldn’t be heard over the crowd. “Are you all right?”

Merlin nodded, so close to Arthur that he felt the movement more than saw it. “Fine,” he said shortly. Merlin pulled back, and the tired pull at the corners of his mouth made Arthur frown. “I just feel like,” Merlin lifted a hand and scrubbed his face, “Like I’m forgetting something.”

“What sort of something?” Arthur pressed, letting his hand rest bracingly against the small of Merlin’s back.

“Something important.” When Merlin met Arthur’s gaze, his eyes looked strange and far away. Merlin nodded his head, like he was shaking the thoughts off, and Arthur snorted in what he hoped was a dignified manner.

“Merlin,” he said loftily, “I think your hair just nodded.”

“My hair doesn’t--”

“If there aren’t any more questions,” Nimueh’s voice boomed across the room, loud and grating. Whatever Merlin was going to say vanished under the sound. “I will release you to your teams. Good luck today, everyone.” The lightness of her stance and voice seemed at odds with the way she spoke, and Arthur had to suppress a shiver at her parting words, which she delivered with a bright smile: “Break a leg.”

As the room emptied, Arthur fell into step next to Merlin. He could see Gwen and Will, his “team” for the day, as well as a few of the riders from Camelot who would be competing in the student portion of the event. For the first time in a long time, Arthur’s stomach knotted--not with fear or panic, as he thought it might, but with the familiar anticipation that came before a competition.

“She and Mordred should rent themselves out for parties,” Arthur said under his breath. “Creepy. The pair of them.”

Merlin laughed, “I’m sure they consider themselves intimidating. It must be hard to be Mordred, anyway. He’s young to be what he is.”

Arthur glanced at Merlin and shrugged, “Weren’t we all?”

Merlin rubbed at the small of his back, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was an unconscious response to the reminder of the future he’d once had or if his back really was sore. Arthur’s money was on the latter. The expression on Merlin’s face was still, at the very least, mildly pained. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Arthur asked seriously.

“Yes,” Merlin said. “I’d like to watch you win.”

Maybe it was the slope of the hill they were on, or the stones underfoot that made their feet land at strange angles. Maybe it was a small dip in the otherwise smooth grass. Maybe it was just dumb luck. But when Merlin said “win” he flinched.

“Merlin--”

“Don’t,” Merlin said shortly, “I’m fine. Let’s make you a champion.”

 

~~~

When it was finally time to do show jumping, Arthur was--well, to say he was nervous would probably be something of an understatement. Merlin had been acting strange all week--out of sorts since they’d gotten to the show. For Arthur, who had come to rely on Merlin as something of a cockroach (no matter how bad it got, he seemed to survive) the change the morning of the last day of the competition was--memorable, to say the least.

It seemed to Arthur that Merlin had been getting progressively worse since the morning of the dressage portion. He’d looked worse for the wear, but certainly capable of not collapsing. The morning of the cross country portion of the competition he’d been shaky on his feet, paler than normal, and slow to respond to Arthur’s questions. Arthur had seen him getting sick too, on more than one occasion. It made Will irritable and protective, put Gwen on edge, and made Arthur more than a little bit nervous.

When he got to the barn the morning of the final day of the competition--the morning of _show jumping_ , the big event, the one that had destroyed Merlin’s life and nearly done the same to Arthur’s, Arthur had expected, at the very least, grim enthusiasm from Merlin. What he got, it turned out, was more like something out of a scary story--the kind where they replace the humans with zombies, and everyone dies at the end--even the cute protagonist.

Arthur spent fifteen minutes trying to find Merlin. He walked circles around the barn, something which put him uncomfortably close to Mordred on more than one occasion. The strange sixteen year old had barricaded himself in an empty stall and was muttering at an old book he held clutched close to his chest. Strange, definitely, but everything about Mordred was, and Arthur chose to ignore it--for the most part.

When he did finally find Merlin, it was completely by accident. Fish had poked his head insistently out of his stall, nosing at Arthur each time he passed. When he finally stopped to see what had the horse so riled up, he saw Merlin, lying prone on his back. It barely looked like he was breathing. “Merlin?” Arthur murmured, opening the door and dropping into a crouch.

Merlin’s whole body seemed to twitch in reaction to Arthur’s voice, and he opened glassy eyes, peering intently up at Arthur in the gloom of early morning dust and wind that seemed to permeate the barn. “Arthur?”

“What’s going on with you?” Arthur slipped a hand under Merlin’s body, helping him to lift up into a sitting position. Merlin’s gaze was tired, and instead of propping himself up, he curled pathetically against Arthur’s chest. Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin, half to hold him up and half to hold him close.

“Just old injuries,” Merlin said stubbornly.

“Merlin, I don’t care what you think. This can’t have anything to do with your fall.”

Merlin shook his head, “Doctor says I’m fine. Has to be--”

“Merlin, you aren’t thinking clearly. _What_ doctor?”

Merlin frowned. “I’m sure I spoke with one.”

They passed Mordred again, and this time, Arthur began to wonder. Mordred was looking at them, at Merlin specifically as Arthur half led, half carried him out of the stall. “Is he feeling quite well?” Mordred asked. His voice was scratchy, and for all his youth, his expression was haggard and haunted like an old man’s.

“I’m forgetting something,” Merlin said, which he’d been saying since Nimueh’s opening speech before dressage. Arthur frowned down at Merlin and then glanced up at Mordred. He remembered the strange flash in Merlin’s eyes the day he’d fallen in the forest--he remembered the way Merlin had acted, as though they were being hunted, as though someone else was there.

And he remembered, like something half out of a dream, a blue sky, and screeching brakes, and a whole new take on flying just before he hit the ground.

Beneath all these reflection, beneath all the memories, he felt something else, too. A strange, golden thrum, and a voice that sounded like Merlin’s hissing words in a foreign tongue.

Mordred. It all came back to Mordred. He didn’t know why, or how, and he was certain that his half remembered, dreamy flashes wouldn’t count for logical evidence, but he knew it had something to do with Mordred.

“Only he can help you win,” Mordred called after them his voice faint and thoughtful. “I’m sure of it. You’ve never been much without him.”

Arthur turned the corner. He did not look back.

~~~

“What the bloody hell was that about?” Arthur asked, trying to get something of a rise out of Merlin as they walked back toward the van. Merlin still seemed shaky on his feet, but he was leaning less and less on Arthur as they put more distance between themselves and Mordred. Arthur spared a thought of concern about the horses, but honestly, it was so ridiculous to think Mordred had something to do with--with _whatever_ was wrong with Merlin that he wasn’t particularly concerned about the horses. And yet.

And yet. That was the problem, wasn’t it? This strange possibility that Mordred was something more than he seemed. Beside him, Merlin was quiet. As they rounded the final corner and stepped in sight of the van, he let go of Arthur completely. “It’s fine,” Merlin said when Arthur reached out to him. “I don’t need to be babysat.”

The half-present chiding in Merlin’s voice calmed Arthur’s nerves a little, but he still caught Merlin’s hand and tugged him to a stop. “Merlin--”

“Arthur you have so much preparation left to do,” Merlin said, his voice as stiff as the hand Arthur was still holding onto. “Let’s save conversations for another day.”

Arthur shook his head. “I owe you an apology, Merlin.”

Merlin looked away, but there was something like a smile on his face. “My behaviour these last few months has been abysmal.”

“You’ve already apologized, Arthur,” Merlin said softly. “You don’t need to do it again.”

“I think I might. Merlin--we--”

Merlin shut his eyes and held up his hand. “We are not in primary school,” he answered. “We don’t need to act like we are. I’m a big boy, Arthur. We’re mates--just mates. I understand.”

Arthur was still holding Merlin’s hand, and he dropped it now to run a nervous hand through his hair. “Merlin--” he started, then stopped. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would encompass everything? Nothing. “Are you and Will...?” he trailed off.

It was obviously the wrong question to ask. Merlin’s face shut down, and his shoulders went stiff. “Will is” Merlins stopped. “For Christ’s sake Arthur, I shouldn’t need to defend this to you. Leave Will alone. I get that you don’t like him--”

“You think I’m insulting Will? Right now? By asking if you’re with him?”

“What else would you be doing?”

Arthur laughed. It was a stupid reaction to have, but the last few months of his life had been unbelievably hard. So now he laughed, perhaps bordering on hysteria, but amused all the same. Merlin just stared at him, his face a cross between confusion and anger.

Somewhere behind them, Gwen was laughing at something Lance said. In the trailer, Morgana was singing along to the soundtrack from _RENT_. All around them, the sounds of horses and riders carried through the air, and everything smelled like dirt, and leather, and hay.

But Arthur wasn’t aware of any of that. He was only aware of how warm Merlin’s skin was when Arthur grabbed him by the waist and pressed him up against the treet. “ _Mer_ lin,” he said, biting back a smile. “Do you ever stop talking?”

Merlin was looking at him with a nervous smile, and deer-in-the-headlights bright blue eyes. Arthur didn’t give him a chance to answer, he just kissed him. Properly, this time. With no running away.

When they finally made it back to the trailer, red cheeked and grinning, Gwen clapped delightedly and Will sighed the most put-upon sigh he had ever heard.

“For fuck’s sake,” Will said, tossing his hands in the air. But he was nearly smiling too.

It was the night before show jumping, and there was a warm breeze, and everything smelled like a barn. It was like coming home, even though his father wasn’t there, even though his mother would never be. Arthur let himself relax for half a second. There was so much to do before the morning, but just for now, just for a moment, he held on to Merlin’s hand like they had nothing else to do.

~~~

~~~

Excalibur was a dream. That was the only way Arthur could describe the horse who had all but swept in and changed his life in a matter of days. Arthur had liked Gwaine--he was easy, familiar, and intensely supportive of his half-healed rider, but Excalibur was a completely different experience. It was like riding Arcturus again--like being part of a team. Dressage and cross country had been _fun_ on Excalibur, in a way Arthur had long been sure riding would never be again.

As he entered the ring for the final portion of the competition, Arthur’s nerves stripped off him like ribbons. He breathed out and then they were just gone. _Gone_. Like they’d never been there at all. It was him and his horse and the sound of the crowd, and somewhere, beneath everything, a blue sky and Merlin’s voice murmuring in that strange language.

Merlin had been looking better since their conversation after they’d left Mordred behind. He was watching Arthur now, and as Arthur and Excalibur moved in front of the judges to make his salute, which Merlin--the _nerve_ of him--insisted on calling tongue-in-cheek, Arthur could just about see him. It was the hair that gave Merlin away, really, dark and puffed up, and settled as close to the fence as he was allowed to get. His eyes, too, were obvious, a bright and clear blue that reminded Arthur of hay like spun gold and warm afternoons, and blue _blue_ skies.

If Merlin was obvious in his familiarity, Mordred was obvious in his strangeness. He had an unknowable quality about him that was more evident here in the ring, with Arthur dropped into a salute in front of him, then it had been in any other encounter. Mordred had always seemed strange, but now he seemed uncanny--something that Arthur could never know. Arthur glanced at him for only a second, but Mordred seemed to enjoy the way Arthur was bowed before him. There wasn’t anything tangible or logical that made Arthur notice it--he had only a brief look--but something about him made the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up. Something about Mordred made Arthur want to pay attention.

Excalibur snorted and tossed his head. Arthur’s nerves were beginning to affect his horse--and he couldn’t allow that. He took a slow, deep breath. “Easy, now,” he half-said. His whole body hummed. This was the first jump of Arthur’s professional career since the accident. This--he couldn’t mess this up.

He had to trust his horse.

So he did.

_One, two, three, four_ he counted in his head, _five, six_ \--he rose in his stirrups, _seven_.

Breathe in. Breathe out. _Fly_.

Arthur had been riding for too long to close his eyes in a competition, but he couldn’t have told anyone what he saw as he went over the jump. It was a blur of colors and the sound of his horse, and Arthur was painfully aware of every inch of his own skin, every drop of blood that flowed through his veins, and the tiniest shift of his hair against his forehead.

And then he’d cleared the first jump, and the second jump was in front of him. This time, he paid more attention to the world outside himself. He fixed his gaze on the third jump, adjusted his grip on the reins, and _relaxed_ , because this was his moment--no, this was _Merlin’s_ moment too--this was their moment. Nothing was going to ruin it.

Breathe in. Breathe out. _Fly._

The turn between the second and the third jump was tricky, but between Arthur and Excalibur, it was as though it was merely a straight line. They were fluid--not the tiniest hiccup in their communication.

Breathe in. Breathe out. _Fly._

There was, more than he’d thought there would be, a sense of gravitas and importance as he cleared the third jump. Here he was again, in a competition, on a horse, and he’d just finished the third jump. The last time he’d competed, his third jump had been the last good jump of what he’d thought was his career. It had definitely been the last good jump, the last _successful_ jump, of Arcturus’s life. For a moment, Arthur nearly bulked. He thought, just for a second, of halting, of turning, of running away.

But that wasn’t how he would win, and Arthur was determined to win. It wasn’t just about vanity or pride, although those were layers of his story, too, it was about something unnamable, something unknown, something ancient.

The fourth jump had destroyed Merlin’s career, it had crippled him.

Arthur adjusted his grip on the reins and breathed out slowly. It would not cripple him, too. Nothing would end today, except this fear that they both had.

“For Camelot,” he said, softly, just to Excalibur.

Breathe in. Breathe out. _Fly._

Arthur didn’t close his eyes, but for a second he thought he had. As they went over the fourth jump, he didn’t see the fifth jump, or the crowd, or even Merlin. He saw a battlefield, a clear blue sky, and hay like spun gold. He saw himself, and Merlin too, and a sword in a stone. He saw them dying, losing--a sheet of ice cold rain washing them all away, and Mordred controlling it. Mordred laughing. Mordred winning.

And then there was sunlight, and there was Excalibur beneath him, and the fourth jump in front of him, and he blinked--just once, and in that moment that his eyes shut and then opened again, he saw a battle won. He saw a day when none of them died.

_I feel like I’m forgetting something_ Merlin had said. Now Arthur remembered everything.

~~~

The rest of the course would always be something of a blur in Arthur’s memory. He knew only that he had done well, _exceptional_ was the word Nimueh used with pursed lips.

At the victor’s ceremony, especially, Nimueh was standoffish. Merlin stood in front of him as Arthur stood on the stage. It was Nimueh who had to hand him the crown--the event’s version of a trophy--and Nimueh who had to declare in a voice clear and cold that Arthur Pendragon had united all of Albion, in his exceptional riding in dressage, cross country, and show-jumping. All the young riders from Camelot cheered then, their voices louder than any other cheer Arthur had ever received. Even Will joined in the chant they took up: _King Arthur_ they all crowed, _King Arthur of Camelot!_. There were photos and flashes, reporters, and Merlin too, Merlin looking healthy and alive and well, still rubbing his back, still swinging his leg, but looking the best that Arthur had ever seen him.

_Hay like spun gold. Blue. A crown. A victory._

What Arthur would remember, tangibly, palpably, was that at the ceremony, he saw only Nimueh.

Mordred wasn’t there, and it was strange--

\--but no one else, aside from Merlin, seemed to remember him.

~~~

 

“I’m not sure I want to do this.”

Merlin frowned, “Arthur,” he said, resting a hand against Arthur’s shoulder, “I think he deserves it.”

Arthur looked hesitant, standing at the bottom of the hill. At the top, just over the crest and out of their view, Merlin knew there was a gravestone. It was the location that had been chosen as Arcturus’s grave, a hill on his favorite trail, a location that Arthur had yet to visit. Merlin had brought him here today because it was time, because Arthur needed closure, and because Merlin was ready for a fresh start.

“I don’t understand why you brought that monster with you,” Arthur said instead of an answer. He was talking about Kilgharrah, who stood placidly at Merlin’s shoulder, his big, green-colored nose resting against Merlin’s calf as he nosed thoughtfully at a tasty-looking bit of grass.

“He needed the walk,” Merlin answered, “Besides, I’m not so sure he likes the Pendragon barn as much as he liked Camelot.”

Kilgharrah was officially being retired, and would spend the rest of his life running wild all over the Pendragon estate. It was an impressive compound, far larger than Camelot, and boasting state-of-the art stalls and tack and--Merlin was fairly certain--probably even pitchforks. The horse had vocally exclaimed his delight over the many fields and his disgust with the barn in general. It was snobby, but Merlin could tell Kilgharrah was warming up to the place. It helped, Merlin supposed, that Kilgharrah could actually say--in english--anything that bothered him. Today, though, Merlin would finally have a few moments alone with the horse well outside the hearing of the general public. Merlin was looking forward to getting the rest of his questions answered.

The Albion Trials had ended two weeks ago, and Camelot had done very well. As proud as Merlin was of his kids, though, he was prouder still of Arthur. Arthur was preparing for a full show season, back to training with his team, and with an eye on the Olympics in the next four years, everything seemed promising. It helped, too, for Merlin’s optimism, that Arthur barely let go of his hand these days. He still, however, had not visited his Arcturus’s grave. It was time.

“Arthur,” Merlin said gently, “Go on. I’ll be right here.”

Arthur looked down at his hands, “What’ll I say?” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Merlin leaned over and kissed Arthur, “Anything,” he answered, just as quietly. For a second, Arthur held still, finally, he nodded and started to walk over the hill. Merlin stayed where he was, quiet and thoughtful. When Arthur had finally disappeared from sight, and Merlin could hear nothing but the wind and the leaves, he turned to the horse. “So,” he said, “What happened to Mordred?”

Kilgharrah heaved a great sigh and lifted his head out of the grass he’d been investigating. He looked at Merlin while he finished chewing, infuriatingly calm and slow. “Well, young champion,” Kilgharrah said, “He has been forgotten, as he always is, and always will be. He has gone back to sleep.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh Merlin,” Kilgharrah said, sounding almost fond, “You never do. Tell me, how does your back feel?”

“Better than it has in a long time. Why?”

“You would have been one of the greatest riders in history, were it not for that injury.”

Merlin looked away, staring out over the fields. “I know,” he said finally.

“But you will still ride, and you will enjoy the entirety of this life. Is that not something worth rejoicing over?”

“It is.” Merlin looked down at his body, frowning, “But--”

“It is Arthur’s turn, now,” Kilgharrah interrupted. “I expect we will see great things out of him. Kilgharrah paused, “But with Mordred gone he may have to keep an eye on you. Arthur is very good, but he’s no Merlin Emrys. You will recover, Merlin. It will seem miraculous, but it will be as it was always supposed to be,” the horse looked off to the side. “Mordred meddles with things, but they are always put right.”

Merlin stared at the horse. “What?”

Kilgharrah huffed out a breath and stomped his foot against the grass. “Your next question, young champion? Time is limited. Arthur is nearly done with his horse.”

“So that’s it, then? It’s just . . . over?”

“The cycle will begin again, as it always does. But first, I think, we will all be allowed to rest, and live out this quiet life. I _hope_ it will be quiet for us all.”

“What about the magic?” Merlin asked, “My eyes--the things that I’ve done--does that stay as well? Does the magic stay?”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur called, standing at the top of the hill now. “Come meet my horse.”

Beside him, Kilgharrah knickered quietly, and dropped his head back down to eat the grass. Merlin let him be, and walked up to the top of the hill to meet Arthur. They stood there for a moment, quiet, with what seemed like all the world stretched out beneath them.

“So,” Merlin said softly, looking at Arthur. “About the Olympics.”


End file.
